


Manhattan

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Babies, Body Horror, Case Fic, Daddy Kink, Dysfunctional Family, Eyeballs, Family Drama, Giving Birth, It's For a Case, Kidnapping, Let Jessica Whitly say Fuck, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mpreg, Murder, Mutilation, Poisoning, Post Mpreg, no beta we die like men, non-consensual cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: PROMPT:  Ok...case fic, Gil hurt protecting Malcolm (from himself or someone else, doesn't matter), both fighting the relationship for different reasons but finally giving in (your choice as to why), yes mpreg, lots of sex, eventual happy ending but as much drama as you want when Jessica finds out.  Is that too much?ME: Definitely but now I need this.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 35
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [4everFlyingdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/4everFlyingdragons/gifts).



> Happy belated Birthday! I heard it from a dino lady that you have the BEST ideas!!

As much as Malcolm adores spooning naked on a large, firm bed with a thin sheet as though it were just him and Gil making the world turn, there’s something to be said for their half-clothed quickie encounters. They both hit their desks without much downtime besides supper and rush to Gil’s place to fuck around. 

Gil won’t have all night to ride Malcolm hard and put him to bed. Tomorrow is Sunday morning which guarantees a crime scene. People kill more during their scheduled times off. 

Malcolm’s necktie lands on the crooked tasseled lamp shade of a floor lamp. Malcolm keeps his button-up shirt and waistcoat. He imagines that the silken texture of the waistcoat appeals to Gil who is shirtless. Gil’s sweater is bunched on the sofa. It is quite lovely to breathe in Gil’s smell with his screams heating up the cable knit with Gil’s hand heavy on his neck.

Malcolm kneels on the seat cushions, clutching the back of Gil’s sofa, the tops of his feet against the edge of the seat cushions. His trousers, which Gil yanked off, are falling in-between the cushions, sinking further each time Gil thrusts into him from behind. They are both thumping away. Malcolm’s voice pitches higher when Gil fucks him harder, adding the noise of quick little slaps. 

His thigh muscles are stiffening up from maintaining their position, but Malcolm will be damned if he rolls over like a wet noodle and calls it quits on his lover. Not that it would stop Gil from pounding him into the sofa. 

The yielding seat cushions challenge Malcolm to pace himself. He can buck his hips as much as he wants to, but the cushions lack the springiness to keep him bouncing. Malcolm is at a disadvantage for milking dick. After a couple of Malcolm’s tricks which made Gil come inside him prematurely, Gil does not allow greedy little Malcolm to do anything but take his cock. Gil’s wingtips remain steadily planted on the floor, braced to give Malcolm what he needs. Gil wears the pants tonight, in the literal sense. Gil is in control. 

Malcolm puts all his weight on one arm so he can put his hand in Gil’s hair and kiss him. Gil grabs him by the throat and strokes him off, impaling him so deeply that Gil’s balls press against the globes of his ass where he is very sensitive to pressure. Malcolm’s endurance is eroded by his poor sleep, self-imposed overtime, and picky eating. Malcolm comes in spite of his desire to keep going. 

Gil catches most of his spend. Malcolm loves this part, when Gil slides come slicked fingers between his lips. Gil presses further along his tongue, choking him and making him gag. It always makes his ass clench. He tightens up around Gil’s cock no matter how much Gil stretches him. Then it’s Gil’s pleasure to fuck him loose again and make his dick leak from too much stimulation after orgasm.

Malcolm tries not to pout when Gil pulls out and jerks himself off. He shivers from how Gil sounds when he comes and how hot it feels when Gil paints him.

“What? Did you want me to get you pregnant?” asks Gil.

“No, of course not,” denies Malcolm. “I wish you could fill me so I can go about my job and still feel what you did to me.”

“We both agreed that it’s a terrible idea,” says Gil, sighing. He claps Malcolm’s ass streaked with his come. “Let’s get cleaned up so I can drive you back.”

“It would be so hot if I could be your cum dump. You could have me as much as you want.” Malcolm clearly wants to extend the evening, which Gil can’t allow.

“I’d want you all the time, Malcolm. Nothing would make me happier than to give in,” says Gil. He kisses Malcolm’s nape.

“I want to take one picture of you.” Malcolm wants to capture the mood of their afterglow. Gil’s hair looks wilder and his skin shines from sweating on top of Malcolm.

Gil pulls on his sweater and lets Malcolm enjoy the newest iPhone model. Malcolm kisses Gil in thanks after he inspects the picture. Malcolm’s lips curl into a naughty smile from Gil’s relaxed pose and the fact that Gil didn’t zip up the sweater which puffs out and teases at the definition of Gil’s chest with no pesky undershirt to conceal that beautiful tan. He lets Gil have a look.

“That camera is something,” quips Gil. The clarity and resolution is much, much better than his own phone.

“One of the perks of being a Whitly. We all upgraded on the family plan,” says Malcolm. “It’s too bad I can’t send you pictures of me.”

“That is a worse than terrible idea.” Gil says no, but he licks his lips and his eyes are keen on Malcolm’s sloppy state of undress. Looking distinctly unhappy about it, Gil announces that he will drive Malcolm back to the loft.

They usually meet at Gil’s place. Both he and Malcolm recognize the non-zero odds that Malcolm’s mother surveils the loft and keeps tabs on everyone who darkens Malcolm’s doorway. Malcolm is careful to turn off the location on his phone and not to use ride share apps. Gil makes it a point not to hang around the loft at night; he limits his loft visits to checking in on Malcolm any time Malcolm sees his dad or when Malcolm seems twitchier at work.

Malcolm cleans up and puts his trousers on, but only because he recognizes Gil’s determination to protect their time together. Their lifelong connection goes beyond passing affections and convenience. No one else in their personal lives would approve. In this, they only have each other.

* * *

If he dreamed, he doesn’t remember it. The first waking thought in his head is the urge to touch. He thinks about how hard he was in Gil’s hand. Gil’s picture displays on his phone screen and Malcolm can easily pretend that he’s beating off with Gil’s eyes on him. Two, then three fingers teasing his own rim, escalating the subtle thrum of afterglow into the next height of pleasure. Malcolm comes, almost forgets to catch himself. He uses a wipe for the cum smeared on his leather restraint cuffs.

He showers and dresses for breakfast at his mother’s house. Malcolm hums into his tea. He feels good in his body after Gil loves on him. His legs remain sore and he is very tender bottomed, but there’s no cluster of tension anchoring his near constant anxiety. 

“Sleep good, bro?” asks Ainsley.

“Don’t be silly, Ainsley. Those dark circles,” comments Jessica. She addresses Malcolm on his appearance. “You need a brightener, dear.”

“No, thank you. The serum burns when it gets into my eyes,” says Malcolm.

“That burn makes one radiant. Beauty is pain, after all,” says Jessica.

“Are you working today? It’s gotta be why you’re peppy,” observes Ainsley.

“Gil hasn’t called me yet.”

“Ugh, to see my son stoop to being an errand boy for the police. I certainly hope he doesn’t call you. Then you’ll have to do something with yourself and meet people.”

Malcolm graces his family with a smile before he eats a greater portion of breakfast. He leaves much less on his plate than usual. “If I don’t hear back, I’ll take a very long walk and get lots of sun. It’s a good day.”

“You have met someone,” says Jessica. “Who is she? What does she do?”

“There isn’t anyone,” insists Malcolm. “I’m settling into a routine that works for me.”

“Mother, if Malcolm did make a new friend, it might be safer for them if we don’t know them. Remember my friend? It didn’t exactly work out when he met the family,” says Ainsley.

“I do recall your work friend. Ainsley, you had two factors working against you. One being that he met your serial killer father in serial killer prison. Two being that workplace romances rarely pan out. That hardly reflects on me or Malcolm,” reasons Jessica.

“Take heed, sweetheart. I sincerely hope you’re not fraternizing with your female co-worker.” Jessica turns on Malcolm who almost chokes on sweet sausage.

“Me and Dani?” Malcolm shakes his head.

“Dani, is it?” repeats Jessica.

“I have the utmost respect for Detective Powell. She’s tough. Just because I genuinely like her company doesn’t mean that I’m interested,” says Malcolm.

Ainsley gestures at him to shut up and then kicks at his ankle. Malcolm glances at his mother and sees that his denials inadvertently cemented the idea of him and Dani. Any time his mother listens to him talk about work, she will ask about Detective Powell. If his mother sees him with Dani, she is liable to meddle in his affairs.

Malcolm is saved by the bell, or rather, his phone. It’s Gil.

“I have to go. Thanks for breakfast,” says Malcolm, leaping out of his chair. He bends down and presses his cheek to his mother’s, both of their lips smacking kisses.

“See ya, bro. Give me deets!” Ainsley blows him a kiss and waves.

“Say hello to Detective Powell for me, dear,” says Jessica before he can skip on out.

His mother is onto him. His remarkably improved disposition is a big tell. Malcolm considers taking a cab straight to the loft after his dates with Gil. Gil prefers to watch Malcolm get through his entrance door, but the car that Gil drives is too distinct to pass muster if Jessica were to hire a professional snoop. Their happiness depends on Malcolm keeping their love affair secret.

* * *

Jessica Whitly no longer plays the fool when it comes to men and their secrets. When Jessica upgrades the family phone plan, she discreetly commissions the installation of a tracking chip that is independently powered. If Ainsley or Malcolm were to turn off their phones or set it on airplane mode, the chip continues running its daily log of their whereabouts. Once every quarter, she can login to a security portal and generate digital reports of their weekly or monthly treks.

She will know exactly how often Malcolm and Ainsley visit their father in Claremont and she will step in accordingly because her children are a detriment to themselves.

Once Jessica kisses and hugs Ainsley goodbye after breakfast, she goes into the mobile app where she can access the chip’s information. Ainsley’s data is all over the maps which is not unexpected considering that her news coverage extends to all five city boroughs. Malcolm’s data is also erratic but more tightly grouped in accordance with the murders which occur in the jurisdictions of 16th Precinct.

Initially, Jessica is relieved that Malcolm visits his father as often as expected, twice every ten days, but no more than that. If Martin attempts to renege their deal concerning Malcolm’s visitations, Jessica has proof. Martin can’t gaslight her when she can reference clear cut timestamps. 

She sips her mimosa as she zooms in on Malcolm’s timeline. 

“Voilà, I have you now, my pretty. And your little bird, too,” whispers Jessica. Her lacquered nails drum against the tablecloth linen as she reviews the frequency at which Malcolm has been making his nightly visits to one location.

“I knew it! So it is Dani. Daniella, perhaps?” wonders Jessica. She’s not opposed to their relationship, but she will relish the validation when she debunks Malcolm’s little white lies.

Jessica copies the GPS coordinates into a separate navigation app. A street level satellite image of the Arroyo residence loads on her smart screen. 

Recognition turns to betrayal. She is a mother hen who spies an old fox preying on one of her chicks. Jessica’s mimosa hits the polished floor, shattering from how swiftly she casts it down.

If it’s work that brought Gil and Malcolm together, it will be work that tears them apart.

She makes a phone call to the police captain who is by now an old codger on his way up at management level. She remembers how often the police captain, back when he was a sergeant, would hold her hand and occasionally rub her shoulders. He gave her his personal number years ago, in the hopes that Jessica might one day yearn for the company of a normal, decent man.

“Hello, Franklin? I hear that you are the newly minted deputy inspector and I wished to congratulate you on your promotion. Never mind my sources.” Jessica pinches the bridge of her button nose. “Yes, of course, a celebratory dinner is in order, if that’s what the deputy wants.”

Although she dresses for the part in her slinky green dress, Jessica does not sleep with the top brass. However, she raises a toast to him glass after glass over gourmet courses, shepherds him to her mansion, and speaks highly of the NYPD. The deputy inspector has her parfum in his nose and the sweet swish of green silk under his chunky, freckled hands, and a siren purring in his ear, making him feel big before he blacks out.

When he opens up the career folio on Lieutenant Gil Arroyo as an in-house candidate for a job vacancy, the deputy inspector feels really good about that name, doesn’t matter why.


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm meets with Gil at The Starsky Motel. It’s not far from Flatiron, on the fringes of the Major Crimes unit’s coverage area. The lot has parking for truckers. The walls are dingy with discolored splotches acquired from lonely men passing by. Crack vials gleam in the motel bathroom, tucked into hair nests, visible from the lockable door.

The victim is Mr. Aldo Pisani, a resident of Valdosta, Georgia. He’s a driver for Buehler Foods based in NYC. He is an Italian male in his late 40s, 5’ 7”, a very hairy 230 pounds. His head rests on a bloodstained pillow. He is half dressed, his gut sagging out of his Atlanta Falcons tee. He’s wearing striped boxers which bulge from the physiological reaction to strangulation. His folded pants and neon orange ball cap rest on a pizza box, precariously balanced on a TV. Tiny bottles of energy supplements sit on a trash can overflowing with coffee cups, condoms, and (happy) tissues.

“I’ve been spoiled by sophisticated killers who pick ritzy places to do their thing. There’s a lot of DNA in here,” says Dani. She’s sucking on a lemon-lime dum dum to deal with the funky smell exuding from the room, not so much the body. Her boot toes at the beige bed skirts, nodding when she sees the empty baggies and what looks to be confetti. “Heroin balloons.”

“Once you pop, the fun don’t stop,” says JT. He’s looking claustrophobic in the rat’s nest built to lodge humans. “I don’t want to say what it smells like up in here, not in the presence of ladies. If you’ll excuse me, boss, I’mma go knock on doors and take a poll with the resident crack dealers.”

“What was that joke again, about the criminals ejaculating all over the crime scene?” says Edrisa. She is in a good mood, her day made by the discovery of unusual objects on the victim’s body. She beams as cheerily as the penlight focused on the victim’s eye sockets. Green olives rest in each hollowed out orbital.

Malcolm crouches down, the mattress creaking under his slight weight. “Besides the vinegar from the olives, there’s also mayonnaise, and he’s quite yeasty.” After a cursory sniff, Malcolm hovers over the dresser which still has the victim’s wallet. Malcolm uses a pen to flap the bifold. “No cash, but unlikely he was robbed. Quite a bit of plastic. Cards, but also a casino chip. What killed him, Edrisa?”

“He was definitely strangled to death, despite the blood on the bed. The source of the blood is from the killer performing a crude postmortem enucleation. Going by the absence of the vitreous humor, he avoided puncturing the scleral shell. The extraocular muscles were detached, but the killer snipped the eyelids, not something typically done by an ophthalmic surgeon.”

“The killer successfully kept the eyeballs intact,” observes Malcolm. “He did it twice, on an adult male who is not insubstantial in build.”

“An eye for an eye,” says Gil.

“It’s a popular adage, but the killer is not seeking the fulfillment of an honor code. He doesn’t want justice which operates on a balanced scale. He wasn’t satisfied with taking Aldo Pisani’s life or feeling him die. He’s not satisfied with taking the eyes. He planted unpitted olives after sending the victim to his grave. He planted a seed. Seeds can symbolize potential, ambition, growth, spread. But why a salted fruit? Why not seeded dates or figs?”

Malcolm twirls in place with the pen. “This is a good, old fashioned vendetta!”

Edrisa claps. “Bravissimo!”

Gil strokes his goatee. “Dani, you follow up on the casino chip. Find out what the victim owed and to who.”

“I’m good with that. Luck swabbing the bed,” says Dani to Edrisa on her way out. She flips the casino chip in her gloved hand and catches it in an evidence bag.

“Eugh, I’m sure plenty of gentlemen have gotten lucky,” mutters Edrisa.

“It’s not lucky if it’s paid for,” says Gil. He pats Edrisa’s shoulder. “Focus on the blood. We can shelve any other samples as low priority. Leave it for Cold Case, if it comes to that.”

* * *

Gil considers his outfit for his scheduled meeting with Captain Murphy. If only he could have a necktie and a turtleneck simultaneously. His first choice was to throw on a suit but it doesn’t get him in the right mindset. The more comfortable he is, the better he’ll handle himself. He ends up wearing his tie tucked under a V-neck sweater. 

Personnel make an extra effort to look busy with Captain Murphy and Chief Bankole. Everyone who doesn’t have a portfolio handy scrabbles for a suitable office prop. Gil is not expecting the Chief of Police. Bankole comes from second generation West Africans. The Chief has a big paunch now, but Gil’s heard the stories. He regrets his soft sweater, but it is too late, for he is seen.

“Hello, Lieutenant. Thank you for carving time out of your day,” greets Captain Murphy.

“Sir.” Gil shakes Murphy’s hand. He quickly follows up with an extended hand to Chief Bankole. “Chief.”

“A pleasure to meet you face to face, Lieutenant. I hope you don’t mind my tagging along,” says Chief Bankole.

“Not at all. We can use my office or the situation room,” says Gil.

“Have you taken your lunch, Lieutenant?” asks Chief Bankole.

No way, he didn’t want to eat right before his Captain wanted him for whatever reason.

It’s clear to Gil that Chief Bankole directed this meeting. Gil and his captain follow the chief to a restaurant. Gil keeps his order simple with grilled chicken and a veggie medley. Bankole orders appetizers and fresh fish piled with aromatics. Murphy does not disappoint with meat and potatoes. Gil and Murphy politely take one piece of each spicy appetizer which Bankole orders. The spices from Bankole’s food orders make Gil’s ears sweat. Murphy, as a McIrishman, flushes red and scoops more potatoes down his inflamed gullet.

“You’re doing good, Franklin. Don’t have a heart attack on me,” quips Bankole as he pops in one roasted chili pepper after another. He smirks at Gil.

“You have a stronger stomach, Lieutenant,” compliments Bankole.

“Thank you, Chief,” says Gil, inordinately pleased with himself despite the morsel of food burning a hole in his guts.

Gil waits for Bankole and Murphy to get past the small talk.

“Jones may be a rookie QB, but he’s not the problem. Shurmur is on his way out. Nine losses in a row. Shurmur is done,” says Murphy.

“He won’t starve. You still get paid coaching the losers,” says Bankole.

Gil cracks a smile. In the back of Gil’s head, the batshit lengths to which Malcolm and the team undertook to catch homicidal maniacs plays in a distracting loop.

“So, when I called you, I did not mention that the Chief would be joining us. Sorry for the bit of deception there, Arroyo,” begins Captain Murphy.

“Franklin recommends you as his replacement. He’s accepted my offer to be my deputy inspector. The scores from your previous civil exam are still valid. After reviewing your service record and clearance rates, we think you have the merit to take the captain’s desk. Do you want the job?” inquires Chief Bankole.

“Sirs, I would be honored,” says Gil. “Let me offer my congratulations to you, Captain. Or should I say Deputy Inspector Murphy?”

“You sure can. Ditto to you, boy’o,” replies Captain Murphy, shaking Gil’s shoulder.

“There is a matter that we do want to address,” says Chief Bankole. “One of the defining qualities of your leadership is how well you put together your detective squad.”

“Your acceptance of captainship does leave a spot open. There is a chance that whoever replaces you may not gel your team together as well as you can,” says Captain Murphy. “Meaning, they might not be able to handle your problem child. You know who I mean.”

“Bright is really good at what he does. He doesn’t need me to babysit him,” says Gil. His ears are burning for wholly other reasons.

“He’s quite a character. The snippets from your solved case reports are extraordinary,” says Chief Bankole. “If it comes to a point that Bright doesn’t play well with your successor, you may be tempted to step in.”

“Best advice I can give you is not to take anyone else’s job. He’ll answer to the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant will deal with him. As Captain of police, you’re gonna have a heck ton of problems and Bright is not on the agenda,” says Captain Murphy. “Bright is a liability. He’ll drag you down if you coddle him. I know his type.”

“Enjoy your successes,” says Chief Bankole. “With how much more falls on your shoulders, you cannot afford the leeway which you had before. My advice is for you to keep a professional distance between yourself and that profiler.”

“He and I go back. That kid saved my life,” says Gil. “With all due respect, sirs, have a little more faith in him.”

“For now, while you’re in transition, you and him can maintain your special collaboration, but the next time he steps out of line, your scope as a lieutenant won’t head off internal reviews,” says Chief Bankole.

“As your Captain, I’ve ironed out some kinks that can spring up mid-investigation. You’re better positioned to protect your team’s work performance,” adds Captain Murphy.

“You can still be there for your boy. He won’t see it that way. When you take the step up, you can anticipate what’s coming. Isn’t that worth it even when it’s necessary to set yourself apart?” inquires Chief Bankole.

“You’re very correct, sirs,” responds Gil. “Bright is a sticking point for me, but I’ll take the job anyway.”

“Good on you, Arroyo,” approves Captain Murphy.

“Welcome to upper management,” says Chief Bankole.

Gil makes the right career move; it’s a clear minded decision. His heart, however, plummets into free fall. What will he say when Malcolm reads him and the questions start?

* * *

Malcolm doesn’t like anyone on Dani and JT’s suspect list. Dani eliminates drug-related suspects who frequented Starsky Motel. They do a thorough job of a casino visit with names trailing through Aldo Pisani’s financial wreck, but Malcolm intuits that it’s more than a love of money which drives the criminal.

If nothing else, him and Edrisa simultaneously enthuse over the results of forensic bloodwork.

“Bright! We have arsenic!” declares Edrisa. “His nails looked normal despite the abundance of toe jam. Mee’s lines were absent. I can tell you that he was poisoned within days of thieve-y eyeballs.”

“Anything else?” asks Malcolm.

“Besides the cocaine and the gonorrhea infection, I did note an elevated level of lead, but not within range of toxicity. He could easily have built it up from work exposure as a trucker.”

“Thanks, Edrisa. Now we know why Aldo Pisani couldn’t fend off his killer. He would’ve been weak and exhausted which explains the energy drinks in his room.”

Gil pressures Malcolm to reconsider known loan sharks who Aldo Pisani would’ve turned to in his gambling troubles. He also conjectures that Pisani ran afoul of an Italian gangster.

“Gil, let me do my job. There’s too many shady characters who wouldn’t have had second thoughts about murdering a guy who couldn’t manage his habits. Mr. Pisani’s supervisor at Buehler food wasn’t surprised about his death. Pisani’s ex-wife indicated that he was dead to her for years. If this act of revenge turns into spree killings, we’ll be able to figure out the killer’s agenda,” says Malcolm.

“I hate to say this, but if the killer’s picking off truckers, let’s hope he does it sooner rather than play the slow game. I put in a call to the FBI, but depending on if the killer strikes again in New York or anywhere in-between Georgia and New York, an agent might show up,” says Gil. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would I? You are just doing your job, Gil, by any means necessary,” answers Malcolm.

Before the month is out, Major Crimes gets called to the flat of a Liverpool native who lives in Flatiron. Gino Lombardi is 39 years old, 5’ 9”, 180 lbs in weight. His tiny place is a mess with fiddles, guitars, and one behemoth double bass in various states of treatment and repair. He clearly lived and worked alone. 

The killing itself is contained similarly to the victim Aldo Pisani. Blood crusts the wood armrest of his futon, unbeknownst to Gino Lombardi, his deathbed. Instead of death by asphyxiation, his neck is snapped from impacting the frame of his futon. His eyelids are bruised, half-lidded over whole green olives. His bloodless hands rest folded over his sleep clothes. Each fingertip is encapsulated in an olive. In total, a dozen green olives are found on Gino Lombardi’s reclined corpse.

The victim’s coffee table is crowded by empty jugs of water, bottled electrolyte sports drink, and unwashed bowls with remnants of chicken soup and soggy breadsticks. Bottles of Tylenol, anti-diarrheal medicine, and Pepto Bismol are also present.

The individual who called the police is a young concert performer, Stella Napolitani, who waited for him to return her principal instrument, a Mendini. A wellness check-in was conducted by a uni. Once Edrisa’s team examines that particular violin, JT and Malcolm run an errand to return Stella Napolitani’s belongings and to gain an interview.

Miss Stella is of average height, with a defined aquiline nose. The prominent bridge of her nose is softened by her wide-set brown eyes and dark haired brows plucked into elegant arches. Her light complexion and long, jet black hair complete her classical aesthetics. She is exactly who one expects to admire in orchestral symphonies.

“Thank you for giving this back to me. I’m neurotically attached to this old thing. It’s from my Nonna,” gushes Stella. She briefly raises the instrument to her chin. JT and Malcolm are briefly treated to Vivaldi. Her smile dissolves into grief. “I think I’ll play something for Gino at his funeral. He came through for me, after all.”

“I’m sorry that you lost your friend. Do you know who might have wanted him dead, Miss Stella?” questions JT.

Stella hesitates.

“You can tell us. Your suspicion is as good a lead as any,” encourages Malcolm. “It’ll help, if you play even a small role, in the arrest of the person who did this. Make them answer for Gino’s life.”

“I’m not involved. He was a craftsman. I am an artist. Gino and I haven’t been good friends in recent years. Not since he was in a relationship with my sister Lina. They were close. I don’t want you to think of my big sister as his ex-girlfriend or a suspect, capische? Gino’s death is killing her. She’s got enough problems running her shop.”

Stella points them to Tarte Bellina. Malcolm gets JT to agree to a late day visit, reasoning that the shopkeep will talk more without a line of customers. JT reluctantly goes along with his suggestion although it means his wife Tally has to leave his dinner in the oven. 

They can see the family resemblance that Lina has to her fair and dark sister. Although Lina is older, she is shorter than her sister Stella and weighing over 200 pounds.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Napolitani. I’m Detective Tarmel. NYPD,” says JT. His shield gleams between the unzipped lapels of his large pleather jacket.

Malcolm leads with the most important question: “Hi there. Malcolm Bright, criminal consultant. Can I have a medium cup of lemon gelato, please?”

JT takes half a step to partially block off Malcolm. “We need to ask you questions about Gino Lombardi.”

“Yeah, my baby sister told me you guys were coming. Just call me Lina. So a medium lemon for you, Mr. Bright. What will you have, Detective Tarmel?”

“I’ll take a small order of pistachio,” answers JT.

“That’s my best seller. The paste that goes into that particular flavor comes all the way from Bronte, Sicily. My more vanilla customers are converts when I give them a sample,” says Lina.

Despite the sadness in her eyes, the heaviness that settles over her when she’s not preparing orders for her customers, and her growing nervousness when she can sit with JT and Malcolm, Lina comes across as a friendly person who volunteers answers.

Malcolm smiles over the basil leaf topping his lemon gelato. JT’s face registers regret that he ordered a small.

“Gino kept to himself a lot. I’d call him up and coax him out of his studio with dinner. He worked his odd hours, the perks of being self-employed.”

“How did you guys get together, if you don’t mind?” asks JT.

“I was a clerk at a food company. Big surprise, right?” Lina smirks and sweeps an arm in the space of her sweets shop. “I was in the office. He was on the floor inspecting shipments. He would bring me his charts and we flirted, nothing serious. Many of the guys would shoot their shots at the office lady. I used to be a cute l’il thing.”

“I would’ve thought that your sister Stella introduced you two,” says JT.

“Stella was kind of why we saw each other outside of work. Before she was hired by an operatic company, there wasn’t a lot of money for her to restore Nonna’s old violin. Stella made do with a starter, but she didn’t get offers until Gino fixed it up for her so she could play. He didn’t want money. He did it for me.” Lina excuses herself to the bathroom.

When she returns, her long, dark hair is bunned up more neatly. Her aquiline nose is flushed but JT and Malcolm kindly abstain from comment.

“How did y’all go from working your day jobs to working for yourselves?” asks JT.

“We quit together and set about making each other’s dreams come true,” answers Lina. “But the more we put into our businesses, the less we had to give. He didn’t want to help at the shop if we were to have kids. That was it for us.”

“As far as you know, Gino Lombardi hasn’t pursued other work,” repeats JT.

“No, he only worked when he wanted,” says Lina wryly.

“What was the name of the company where you met Gino?” asks JT.

“Buehler Foods,” answers Lina.

Malcolm draws the spoon over his tongue, savoring limoncello and the satisfaction of discovering another link between a murdered truck driver and a dead luthier.

“Did you or Gino know anyone by the name of Aldo Pisani?” questions JT.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” says Lina, tapping her lips.

“Aldo Pisani also worked for Buehler right up to his suspicious death,” says JT.

“Don’t look at me. I don’t know a thing,” says Lina. “I work from 4 am to close, every single day. I don’t ever take off work. It’s a big deal for me to shut her down so that I can squeeze into a black dress and bury Gino.”

“We’re going to need you to come to the precinct and answer additional questions,” says JT.

“No,” refuses Lina. “I haven’t done anything wrong. If I’m not under arrest, please leave.”

“You can come with us now of your own free will. Or we can take you in cuffs and hold you for forty-eight hours,” informs JT.

“B-But I’ll miss Gino’s funeral,” objects Lina. “The shop has to stay open.”

“Lina, the tox labs confirmed the presence of arsenic and lead in Aldo Pisani and Gino Lombardi’s bodies. Unfortunately for you, poisoners tend to skew female. We know you have access to Gino. The way to a man is through his stomach,” says Malcolm.

“If you want to get to me, you’re going through my lawyer,” declares Lina. She keeps quiet in the back of JT’s unmarked vehicle. She stays quiet until the arrival of her criminal defense attorney.

“Miss Lina, please. I don’t actually believe that you poisoned the love of your life,” says Malcolm. “Dreams can join people to one another in lifelong ventures. Your hopes took you out of Gino’s path in life, but it didn’t end your connection. Someone came into Gino’s studio when he was weak from arsenic and ended his dream, that same dream that you loved him for.”

JT slides photos across the interrogation table. “Look at him, chick. Tell me again that you don’t know nothing.”

Lina reacts violently, knocking her chair over and shoving the table into Malcolm’s chest, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. It hurts for him to catch his breath.

“Why would you show me that? I want my lawyer. I don’t wanna see or hear nothing without my lawyer!”

“You know who did this. They made a mockery of him. Olives are a bitter fruit, indeed,” says Malcolm, brushing off a concerned JT. He’s breathing hard as he clutches his pecs. Bruised muscle throbs beneath his clutch hold.

“I can’t, alright?”

“Lina, we can protect you if you have information,” says JT. “Whatever you knew about Gino’s secrets can help us catch the real killer. He won’t be able to retaliate against you for doing the right thing.”

“I don't want to make any statement without my lawyer present,” says Lina. From then on, she doesn’t say another word. Her attorney turns up and springs her out, further increasing their suspicions.

“What the hell does the gelato lady have to do with Lilah Morgan?” mutters JT.

“Good evening to you, Mr. Tarmel,” greets Lilah Morgan. She wears a nude lip, pencil skirt, and Prada. Her smile is mild as she extends a perfumed hand to Malcolm. “And you are…?”

“Malcolm Bright, consultant,” answers Malcolm, noting the warm, firm handshake.

“Surely that’s an alias,” jokes Lilah.

“How are you and JT acquainted?” asks Malcolm.

“We see each other on the circuit,” replies Lilah. She turns to JT bemusedly. “You go by JT now?”

“The only reason you’ve got my name is because the devil told you,” says JT.

Her laugh sparkles like the antique pendant over her blouse. “I do so miss your rebuttals, Detective. Congratulations to you and your wife.” Lilah shepherds her client out of the bullpen, the sole of her heels making no noise on the linoleum tile.

“I arrested a hitman affiliated with an Italian gang. Our witness somehow was vacationing in Bora Bora when they were due to testify. Her client was acquitted on all charges of murder two. Lilah Morgan had a banner day in Eastern District Court.” JT smacks Malcolm’s shoulder. “C’mon. Join me for dinner at home. I’ll tell you the whole story. Tally won’t be as mad if you show up looking hungry.”

The lemon gelato was sublime, but dinner with the Tarmels sounds fantastic to Malcolm, if only for the company.

“If what you say about Lina’s attorney is true, then we should make sure that Lina makes it to poor Gino’s funeral. I can check out everyone who pays their respects,” concludes Malcolm.

“I’m in. Heard there would be live music,” says JT.

They have two days to hash out a strategy.


	3. Chapter 3

Sunshine is quieter than usual. His parakeet puts her head under her wing and goes sleepy bye. The loft feels more spacious than normal. Malcolm switches on the TV, on low volume, even though he knows the blue light from the screen is not great for his insomnia. His solitude is interrupted by the doorbell. Malcolm activates his intercom.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” It’s the last person Malcolm would have guessed.

“Gil?” Malcolm buzzes him in despite not anticipating his company tonight. Gil wouldn’t show up at his loft without calling or texting.

“Hey, kid. Sorry to drop in.” Gil shrugs off his sport coat. His sweater is creased and his shirt collars are upturned, the top buttons undone, no tie.

“Not at all. I’m here all night,” quips Malcolm. 

It’s not late by city standards, but it is after the dinner hour. He is still dressed. By force of habit, Malcolm wears a two-piece suit for his evening meal and only half a glass of wine. Love has given him appetite. He’s put on a little weight from Gil’s home cooked dinners. For now, he foregoes his waistcoats and cuts back on liquid calories.

“Have you eaten?” asks Malcolm.

“Had a big lunch. I’m alright,” answers Gil. “Am I interrupting you?”

Malcolm glances at his TV which is muted on the news. His sister’s image glows on the screen. He shuts off the TV, mildly annoyed that he can’t get away from his family.

“I was about to jump in the shower,” says Malcolm. “Will you join me?”

“Best not to,” says Gil. It’s an answer that Malcolm expects, considering where they are. 

Gil approaches him and touches the lapels of his suit jacket. Malcolm’s skin prickles, taken aback by an onslaught of deep want, just from pressure felt over his clothing layers.

“How about I help you loosen up your tie?” offers Gil. “Make myself useful around here.”

“I’d like that. I like it more when you tear my clothes off,” says Malcolm.

“Not tonight, baby. Tonight’s different,” says Gil softly.

Malcolm’s head tilts back from how fiercely Gil kisses him. Gil sucks Malcolm’s bottom lip into his mouth, between his teeth. The sudden twinge makes his jaw drop. Gil’s tongue slips along his palate, tugging him closer by the length of his silver necktie. Malcolm’s knees tremble, losing balance on tiptoe. 

The impact of their bodies colliding breaks their kiss. Gil steadies him, making him step back a little. Malcolm blows hair strands out of his face and laughs when he realizes how much he’s pushing back for more.

Gil has already unraveled his necktie. It hangs loose around Gil’s shoulders. Gil stares into Malcolm’s eyes as his fingers pluck at the shirt buttons. Malcolm gulps back the emotions welling up in his throat, scorching hot under his collar. Gil’s hand wraps around the back of his neck. Gil’s other hand skims along his bare chest. The heat from Gil’s touch sinks down his belly and pools in his loins.

Malcolm’s belt buckle clinks. Gil tugs at his waistband until his pants unclasp. Working by feel, Gil doesn’t look down, his focus arrested on Malcolm’s face. Malcolm’s lips tremble, breathless as Gil’s fingers trace an infinite loop just over the elastic band of his briefs. Malcolm shakily exhales in relief when Gil hooks a finger into his briefs and pulls his briefs lower than the vee of his legs. His cock is firm, straining from Gil’s careful attention.

“Stroke your cock for me, Bright,” says Gil.

Malcolm is momentarily unnerved by the use of his surname because they’re not at work. He doesn’t have time to read into it any further before Gil’s hand moves from the nape of his neck to his throat. 

“Go on, Bright. You look like you need it.” Gil tightens his grip. While Malcolm can still breathe comfortably, Gil uses enough pressure to mean it. Meaning is everything to Malcolm. He can feel the power that Gil has over him. Not just from Gil holding him by the throat, but also from Gil’s sensual touches over his skittering heart, circling maddening loops around his nipples, whisper soft beneath his clothes, between where fabric layers part for vulnerable skin. 

Malcolm does what Gil tells him to. He squeezes and jerks himself, catching his sensitive bulbous cockhead in the tunnel of his right hand. Gil watches his brows crease, his teeth clench, his nostrils flare from his ragged breaths. Malcolm loves how Gil is choking and caressing him, but he can’t beat off without any slick.

“Do you want to come?” asks Gil.

“Yes, Daddy,” answers Malcolm with relish. His tongue plays between his eye teeth, but Gil is not amused.

“Then Daddy expects you to pop off,” says Gil. “If you want that shower, you better do it.”

“I need lube,” retorts Malcolm.

“You need to do what you’re told.” Gil says before his lips crush Malcolm’s. For a moment, Malcolm teeters on the precipice, desperate for release, sweating for it, but he’s not there yet. He moans into the kiss, whining when Gil breaks it off. A thread of saliva cools on his chin.

Gil takes the hand wrapped around Malcolm’s cock and raises it to his face. His goatee brushes the back of Malcolm’s hand. His tongue swirls around three of Malcolm’s fingers, suckling until wetness drips down the crevice between each finger. Gil presses his nose into Malcolm’s palm, inhaling the smell of Malcolm’s cock imprinted on the soft mounds. Gil lips at the heel of Malcolm’s palm, mouth open to slick his skin.

“Get your dick wet, Bright,” commands Gil.

Malcolm’s breath harshens as he thrusts into his own damp hand. Gil squeezes his throat until Malcolm can’t speak, can’t tell him to move back. Malcolm’s cry gets strangled and then he shoots ropes all over Gil’s sweater. His open shirt flutters from his heaving chest.

“Beautiful. God, you’re beautiful,” praises Gil. He kisses Malcolm, sweet and quick like a sting.

“Will you stay? Please, Gil?” Malcolm is dizzy and he needs an anchor because of how high he’s floating.

Gil cuffs his chin lightly. “I’ll stick around. You hit the showers, kid.”

“Good. Don’t leave.” Malcolm almost falls over with relief. Gil is obliged to help him out of his suit jacket.

“Can I take your coat, young man?” jokes Gil. His arms wrap around Malcolm’s waist. Malcolm’s eyes roll, lashes fluttering, because of how good Gil’s lips and his goatee feel on the side of his neck, teasing behind his ear. How delicious Gil’s dirtied sweater feels on his unclothed back muscles.

Gil kneels and helps Malcolm step out of his bottoms. Malcolm grabs onto Gil, fondling more sweater, when Gil peels off his dress socks. He’s on autopilot before he gets under the showerhead. Malcolm rushes through shampoo and conditioner, lets the suds melt away. He tingles from each spray washing off everything but the sensation of Gil’s hands on him.

After Malcolm towels dries his hair and body, he considers rushing out of the bathroom naked. Then he decides against it. It’s too obvious. Malcolm takes his time moisturizing his body. He wraps a long towel around his waist. Then he fires up his hair dryer and adds a touch of serum as an apology to his hair follicles for the lack of conditioning. Lover’s intuition persuades Malcolm to make his skin soft, his hair silken, as irresistible to the touch as he can manage.

Gil is situated on the couch with a black and white film playing. He doesn’t look when Malcolm heads over to his wardrobe. Malcolm reaches for black silk pajamas and a dark blue organic spa robe.

“Hey, do you want one or two pillows for the couch?” asks Malcolm. He hovers with a folded sheet and a clean blanket. Gil takes the sheet and blanket and plops them onto the couch. He rubs Malcolm’s side, slotting his palm between silk and cotton.

“Gil,” says Malcolm. He’s concerned when Gil ducks his head. He’s seen that look on Gil’s face, casting flowers over Jackie’s casket. Gil shoring up to say goodbye. “Are we okay? What’s going on?”

“Work stuff,” says Gil.

Malcolm’s interest escalates. “Can you enlighten me as to the details?”

“Office politics, not related to murder,” Gil clarifies.

“Hmm, very cutthroat. Are you sure no one’s been killed?” says Malcolm.

Gil chuckles. “You never did learn to play ball in the boys club.”

He smacks Malcolm’s bottom. “Now who do I have to screw around here for fluffy pillows?”

Malcolm scrunches his nose at Gil and walks to his bed. He smirks to himself when Gil tails him.

“You may have one pillow,” says Malcolm, with a business-like tone. He throws a pillow at Gil.

“This one’s flat. Gimme the fluffy one. What kinda joint you running here?”

“Sorry, mister. There’s none to be had,” says Malcolm. He shoves the coveted fluffy pillow under his pajama top and rolls over. 

His poorly suppressed giggle blooms into a triumphant laugh when Gil pounces. Gil wrestles him onto his back and pins down his arms. Gil’s mock outrage melts into tenderness as he splays his fingers over Malcolm’s pajama top rounded with the pillow. Malcolm grasps his chin and strokes his goatee. When their lips meet, Malcolm feels Gil’s fingers roving over the silk. Gil’s calluses catch on the luxurious fabric. Malcolm lifts his hips and lets Gil slide off the pajama bottoms.

Malcolm clutches the sheets as Gil spreads him and flicks a hot tongue in the cleft of his ass. The pillow falls out of his shirt. Gil’s arms loop around his legs, pulling Malcolm closer to eat him out more thoroughly. Malcolm cries out when Gil’s tongue opens the puckered furl. Gil stretches him with one finger. Malcolm’s toes dig into the mattress.

“Oh my God, Gil! Gil!” His body undulates, cock tapping on silk clothes with his frantic movements.

“Yeah, Malcolm?” Gil wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Malcolm grabs his hair. “Fuck me. Really fuck me. Do what you came here for!” 

“Didn’t bring condoms.”

“Drawer,” snarls Malcolm.

Gil finds a lube bottle and tears a ribbon of foils in half. He grabs whatever falls out. Malcolm’s already working on Gil’s belt and fly. Gil peels off his sweater and shirt. He kicks off his pants, gropes for the condom. Malcolm’s thrusting slick fingers in and out of his hole, moaning Gil’s name. Gil yanks Malcolm onto his lap. 

Malcolm shimmies out of the robe and slings his arm around Gil’s neck. Gil pinches and tugs down the condom to unroll it. He feels it snap against his raging hard cock. Malcolm grips his cock, lubes the tip, and with a deep sigh, sinks down. His open mouth presses Gil’s naked shoulder. 

Gil seizes his ass, clamping his hands and lifting and slamming Malcolm many times. A savage growl rumbles out of his throat when Malcolm’s frantic cries cut off from how deeply Gil fucks him. All Gil needs is Malcolm wrapped around him, clinging to him tight, fucking so hot and fast that it’s a wonder Malcolm’s shirt doesn’t catch fire. 

Malcolm’s come splatters on his stomach and dribbles onto his groin. Gil pistons his hips, and Malcolm’s raw heat hits him like a metric fuckton. He can feel Malcolm through the condom. Gil’s eyes screw shut and he almost passes out when he empties.

Malcolm laughs when he tips over, legs bent up. Gil removes the condom, frowning when come leaks after tying it off.

“Baby, I’m sorry. There’s a small tear.”

Malcolm scoots closer. “It’s near the base; don’t worry about it.” He licks his lips. “You get two pillows tonight.”

“You’re a gracious host,” says Gil flatly.

Gil is surprised when Malcolm rests on his chest. “Since I have no pillows, you must support my head while I rest my eyes.” Malcolm yawns dramatically.

“What would you do without me?” says Gil. He spreads Malcolm’s spa robe over both of their sweaty bodies.

The one thing off limits to both of them in Malcolm’s bed is sleep. Gil departs in the wee small hours, but not without one good, long kiss to last the ages.


	4. Chapter 4

The second victim’s funeral is a humble affair at a church in Little Italy. A far cry from the established cathedrals, folding chairs are set up in tight rows. Surviving Gino Lombardi is his mother and an elder brother who is married with eight children. Lina Napolitani sits with the elderly Mrs. Lombardi. Stella Napolitani plays a song, but not as a soloist. Friends of Gino, a surprising couple dozen, show up with instruments fixed by his own hands.

Malcolm glances at JT whose face is blank through stringed renditions of Amazing Grace after words from the priest.

“Do you need a minute?” asks Malcolm, who can only imagine how many times JT has had to stand and salute.

“I’m good, man. It is what it is,” says JT. He points out an elderly gentleman who is in attendance but not taking a seat. “Don’t look now. Seriously, don’t. Could be a coincidence, but that man is Antonio Rizzo. He’s in the business, if you know what I mean.”

Malcolm catches sight of a slightly stooped man who is heavyset. His hair has gone gray except for his thin, dark combover. He would be average height standing up straight. He relies on a black walking cane with a silver sterling handle graced with the fleur de lis. Antonio Rizzo rounds out a black suit and skinny tie. An ornate crucifix necklace and a chunky gold ring on his pinky complete the look of a modern American gangster.

“He’s a killer for sure, but is he our killer?” wonders Malcolm. He watches Lina’s reaction when she sees Rizzo. Lina hugs the aged gangster and accepts a kiss on her forehead. Arm in arm with her sister and Rizzo, three of them trail after the casket.

The casket is borne outside the church by pallbearers. A hearse conveys the casket to a funeral home within walking distance.

The funeral home stages a standard open casket viewing indoors, but the doors to an adjacent courtyard lead to picnic tables, benches, and chairs designated for a quintet of Gino’s friends tagging in and out to play his instruments. The wake is like an outdoor party. Appetizers are piled in the shade with an inordinate selection of deli cuts, cheese, fruit, and baskets of sliced loaves. There’s a hot food station managed by a tall gentleman with long, sharp knives.

“I didn’t have this much food at my wedding,” says JT, before he heads for the hot station.

Malcolm sidles up to the charcuterie slabs. Pachelbel’s Canon in D plays in the open air as people circle up, far more than who attended the church funeral.

“Where the fuck are the olives?” demands Antonio Rizzo of a dead-eyed server. “I did not shell out catering money and get no stinkin’ olives. You get me the caterer.”

Malcolm chews on a wedge of Fontina d'Aosta and a halved piece of fig.

“Whatever appears to be the problem, Mr. Rizzo?” It’s the tall gentleman managing the hot food station. He speaks with a twangy Southern draw.

“You the caterer?” says Rizzo.

“I surely am. Bert Pinto, like the beans,” confirms the caterer.

“Get me some olives.”

“I’d love to oblige you, but Miss Lina insisted on packing them up,” answers Bert. “I tossed ‘em all right quick like yes’m. She was crying so.”

“All of them?”

“Well, the ones I chilled are gone. If you don’t mind ‘em warm...”

“Go get them. Step on it, boy.”

“Uncle Rizzo, are you being a grouch?” Stella appears with a little plate of fruit. She sees Malcolm, but ignores him in favor of hugging Rizzo.

“I can’t have salami or dairy. I just want some stinkin’ olives.”

“This’ll do ya!” The caterer presents a glass container of pimento stuffed green olives labeled _Jar of Manna_. The label includes a Medieval print of Saint Nicholas of Bari, haloed, brandishing a bishop’s hooked staff. 

Rizzo looks at the jar with surprise. He fumbles his cane. “Don’t just show me. Open the damn thing. Can’t you see my hands are full?”

The caterer drops the glass jar when a woman’s screams echo in the courtyard. Malcolm pushes his cheese plate onto Stella and runs toward the viewing area, the source of the screams.

“Who did this? Who?!” shrieks Lina. She is inconsolable and unintelligible no matter what Malcolm says. Malcolm walks to the casket which Lina has turned her back on.

Gino Lombardi rests with his arms folded, fingers tipped with olives. An olive is halved and placed over his eyelids.

The Lombardi family weep along with Lina. Stella suggests that Lina takes a week off from her shop while friends and family handle her shop. Lina will not speak to the NYPD without her attorney, leaving Malcolm and JT with more questions than when they (and the killer) crashed the wake.

* * *

“I hate myself for asking, but what the fuck is the killer doing with the eyes?” says JT. “Is it some Hannibal stuff?”

“The killer’s not psychotic to that degree. The idea of it would repulse him. I imagine that he’s preserving them as trophies, given the pains he undertook not to puncture the eyeballs. Edrisa assures me that the victims’ stomachs did not harbor the missing parts,” informs Malcolm.

“Burning question answered. Let’s try a less gross angle,” suggests JT.

He and JT discuss Antonio Rizzo. On paper, Antonio Rizzo is a taxicab dispatcher at MacMarr Cab Company. Despite being 63 years old, Rizzo is not retired. Malcolm tries not to be terribly disappointed when an investigation into Buehler Foods doesn’t link Antonio Rizzo to the case.

“What kind of business did Gino Lombardi get mixed into with Antonio Rizzo? What does Lina Napolitani have to lose if we arrest his murderer?” JT drums his work desk, pencil tucked between his nose and lip.

“Her life. She doesn’t have anything but that sweets shop,” says Malcolm. “It’s her passion. If she had a million dollars, she would use that money to sell authentic gelato. She had quite a few specialty items. Expensive ingredients.”

“How did Gino Lombardi pay rent in Flatiron? It’s almost five thou. Dude only helped his friends or people who heard of him by word of mouth. He didn’t charge his friends the full amount,” says JT, sharing what he learned at the funeral.

The call comes in from Stella Napolitani, who discovered the unresponsive body of her sister Lina about four days after burying Gino Lombardi.

“She was feeling sick so I brought food for her,” sobs Stella. She is half bent at the foot of the victim’s bed. “Help her, please. Do something.”

JT assists Stella out of the bedroom, leaving Malcolm and Edrisa to examine the scene. Malcolm notes the presence of vitamin water and diet ginger ale cans as well as a trash can filled with vomit. The bathroom’s a mess, too.

“She had a severe seizure attack,” notes Edrisa. She photographs the dried traces of bloody spittle crusted around the victim’s mouth. Blood soaks the victim’s hair and pillow. The same unpitted olives are planted in her sockets and on her fingertips. “There’s no additional trauma to her body besides the enucleation.”

Malcolm backs out of the bedroom and runs to Lina’s kitchen. He’s met with a dry, gleaming stainless sink. When he flings open the fridge, it’s completely empty. The freezer is packed with meals.

“Edrisa, please fast track the tests for toxins in her system,” says Malcolm, returning to the scene of death. He’s shocked when he observes the medical examiner running into the wall, knocking her glasses askew.

“Uh, yeah, so her body has a pulse? She’s comatose. Bright, we have to get the medics back in here!” yells Edrisa.

Lina Napolitani is admitted to a poisoning center for acute arsenic toxicity. Intensive care physicians treat her with fluid and electrolyte replacement, stomach pumping, and dosing her with chelating agents which bind to the arsenic. Bleeding from ocular trauma is stemmed and covered with a sterile dressing soaked in saline water, as well as an eye shield. The doctors wait to treat her eye injuries before she stabilizes from the arsenic.

Malcolm waits with Stella while JT hustles to get medical chart notes. He ignores his father’s voice playing in a sterile refrain, of the likelihood of Lina’s survival. He’s not expecting Gil to call him.

“How’s Edrisa doing?” asks Malcolm.

“Kid, you know Edrisa is taking a couple days off work,” informs Gil.

“Who wouldn’t?” replies Malcolm. “JT let me know that there was arsenic, lead, and belladonna in Lina’s system.”

“What’s significant about those chemicals?”

“The belladonna is new. The killer meant for her to die by poison. With Pisani and Lombardi, the killer simply weakened them,” says Malcolm. “Back in the 17th century, many women poisoned their husbands. Arsenic, lead, and belladonna AKA deadly nightshade were used as primary ingredients for a concoction known as _Aqua Tofana_ , named after a Sicilian woman. One drop on the first day causes fatigue. The second day's dose brings dysentery, vomiting, stomach pains. By the third or fourth day, la Morte, seemingly caused by disease.”

“Are you saying that Salad Fingers is a woman?” asks Gil.

“No, it’s a bad guy. Wait. Salad Fingers?” repeats Malcolm. “Jesus, is that what the news outlets have dubbed this particular killer?”

“Our unit did a great job keeping the details about the olives under wraps, until the killer showed his hand at Gino Lombardi’s funeral,” says Gil.

“He’s definitely going to kill again. He wants his signature broadcast for the next person he’s targeting. He wants his target to see him coming and be filled with dread. It’ll happen again in New York. He knows enough about federal agencies that he killed a Georgia man closer to where the majority of his victims reside,” rants Malcolm.

“So we have time while he’s waiting to move in,” says Gil. “You’re going to have to call him Salad Fingers like the rest of this city.”

“Not if we solve the crime!” says Malcolm.

He gets off the phone with Gil when he observes Stella hunched forward in her chair and a surgeon in scrubs walking away.

“She’s going into surgery now, Mr. Bright. If she wakes up after the surgery, she’ll live,” says Stella grimly. “Good thing she’s got the money.”

“Money? As in, gelato money? Or do you mean what your Uncle Rizzo paid her?”

Stella freezes, deer in the headlights, her eyes so much like her sister’s. Then she brushes him off with renewed poise. “I gotta call family. Please don’t bother me unless you arrest the whack job who almost killed Lina.”

Malcolm hates this part of investigations the most, the waiting.


	5. Chapter 5

Gil doesn’t leave much buffer time between when the brass announces his appointment as police captain and when he can explain himself to Malcolm. When Malcolm uncharacteristically suggests dining out, Gil commits himself to dropping the news on Malcolm at a neutral place which carries no sentiment for either of them. They pick an uptown restaurant to minimize run-ins. Ainsley frequents the West Village nightlife. Jessica wouldn’t be caught having a good time above 57th street.

Malcolm seems more tired at dinner. He’s slower to pick up Gil’s teasing, but when he does, his smile is nothing short of luminescent in the glow of candlelight and incandescent fixtures. The type of cuisine on the menu also seems to agree with Malcolm. His hands are restless when he’s done with his plate.

Gil picks a stout brew to pair with his meal.

“I’ll just have Perrier,” says Malcolm, foregoing his usual wine.

“You alright, kid?” asks Gil, who is already on edge from being out in public with Malcolm, indefensibly outside of official work capacity.

“I’m not feeling like drinks until we arrest Salad Fingers,” says Malcolm. He makes a face from the killer’s moniker. 

Salad Fingers is the name of a cartoon abomination with bulbous appendages starring in a series of cursed internet Flash videos. Some Millennial connects Salad Fingers’s nightmarish hands with a serial killer who garnishes his corpses’ chilled fingers, and the news media fall in line with what’s trending.

“You are taking care of yourself,” remarks Gil. “You should be proud of yourself for how much you’ve changed, for the better.”

“It’s been a process for sure, but I’m starting to come around. Unexpected developments don’t have to be a setback depending on how you conduct yourself,” says Malcolm. He looks nervous.

“Kid, are you talking about you or me?” asks Gil.

“Let’s talk about you,” says Malcolm. “You will tell me the reason why we’re meeting, Lieutenant. Either you talk or I start pulling answers out of my ass.”

“It is about that time,” sighs Gil. He does not want that profiler vision aimed at him. “I’ve accepted a position as police captain. A large reason why I was selected is because of what you and my detectives bring to the table for priority cases.”

“That is a new development, but not an unexpected one. You’re due for it.” Malcolm quirks a corner of his mouth. “Congratulations, Captain. I’m happy for you. A large reason why I’ve been healthier is because of your support. I will admit that this changes things between us.”

“I don’t want things to change between us,” says Gil. “Is it dumb that I assumed we could keep going like this? We could still...”

“No, we can’t. Our arrangement is a conflict of interest. It’s not fair to the guy or gal who’s coming in after you. Your judgment when it comes to me would be compromised. Interoffice friction gives monstrous killers more chances to evade justice. We can’t have that.” Malcolm brings his fingers to his forehead. “We can’t have this.”

“So what’s the good news, kids?” says Gil, unable to refute any of Malcolm’s talking points. “You had something to share. The table’s all yours.”

“Well, I haven’t had any bad dreams for a few weeks. It’s almost like when I was working for the Bureau. The doctor’s not happy about me averaging four hours, but I know what this kind of improvement will lead to. It can snowball into six hours of rest.”

“And you’re thinking that it’s because of me?”

“Yes. You’ve given me a huge reason to rest at night. If our special time has to end, I’d rather do it now while I’m in a healthy place,” says Malcolm.

“Do you wanna know why I put off having this conversation with you, Bright?” Gil reaches for his hand, and Malcolm allows it. He leans in and Gil feels the light pressure of him squeezing back.

“After almost two decades of friendship, I can guess,” says Malcolm. “But it will be more fun if you tell me.”

“It’s not that I thought you would get on my case for advancing,” says Gil. “I knew the first thing out of your mouth would be what we have to do to make the situation right, even when it incurs a significant personal cost.”

“This can be great for the both of us. If ever I need to bend the ear of a police captain. It makes you a better role model for a little boy, a little girl. I don’t have just myself to think about, not anymore.” Malcolm brushes down his tie, pulling his hand from Gil’s and resting it over his stomach. “I never want to be the one who holds you back.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re pushy as hell.” Gil is about to tell Malcolm that he loves him.

“Oh, dessert’s coming,” chirps Malcolm. He digs in a bit exaggeratedly, but the creamy sweets drizzled with caramel disappears more quickly than Gil’s used to. “How’s your pudding, Gil?”

“Couldn’t eat another bite,” says Gil, not with his heart sunk down to where his manly guts are supposed to be.

Malcolm gets his fork into Gil’s pudding. “Mmmm. It’s coconut pudding. Do you mind if I…?”

Gil chuckles. “Knock yourself out, Bright. You’ve got one hell of a sweet tooth.”

“It’s coconut pudding. They actually shredded it fresh and toasted it. You can’t exactly pick it up at a bodega,” says Malcolm. He slows down, slightly flushed in his enjoyment. He’s glowing somehow and Gil can’t take his eyes away.

“How about we get out of here? We can walk off some of the food and I can bring you home,” suggests Gil. “No hard feelings?”

“It would be smarter for us to take a cab,” says Malcolm, with a look of discomfort. He pauses and waves his hand. “I mean, for me to take a cab.”

Gil relents, but he insists on paying the check. His dinner, which he couldn’t polish off, goes into a doggie bag to take home.

“Let me walk you to the curb and hail a taxi for you,” says Gil. He can’t stop himself from plucking Malcolm’s jacket from the coat rack and smoothing it over Malcom’s compact frame. Malcolm’s can’t quite meet his eyes. The doggie bag swings in his hand; Gil forgot it at the table.

“Goodnight Gil,” says Malcolm. He clambers into the taxi. Before he tucks in his feet, he holds out the doggie bag to Gil. “This is yours.”

“Go ahead and take it home with you. Sleep good, okay?” He gently pushes the bag of food onto Malcolm. Their hands brush for the last time, leaving Gil with the faint aroma of their shared dinner.


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm looks at Gil’s photo which he captured on his upgraded iPhone. He can’t bring himself to delete it even though Gil has moved into a larger office with a window overlooking West 35th Street. It hits him a little harder because not only has Malcolm seen less of Gil, but also less of his detective friends in Major Crimes.

The commanding officer in-waiting who will take over as Lieutenant, to put it mildly, chooses to severely underutilize Malcolm. Malcolm has to schedule times to go into the precinct to watch interview videos or audiovisual evidence. He is not allowed to stand behind the one-way glass when an interrogation is in process.

Malcolm is physically barred from active crime scenes, though he retains access to documentation, photos, and the detectives’ digital case notes (which drives Malcolm nuts because Dani’s notes are a wall of text without paragraph breaks or indentations, oh God, it’s Dani’s emotional wall).

Malcolm is not allowed to be in the same room as their living eyewitness Lina Napolitani. Malcolm corrects himself mentally. That is to say, their blind witness. Lina surfaced from her coma, gargling a single word repeatedly. Her communication abilities are hampered by neurological damage from her arsenic-induced seizure.

“Man,” said Lina, according to her nurses.

Malcolm’s overdeveloped bent towards justice keeps him focused on the “Salad Fingers” case despite him sitting at home and ignoring the mounting problems of his personal life.

Edrisa’s autopsy exams invariably cheer him up. Malcolm reads her qualified conjectures on what tools and methods may have been used to perform crude enucleations on Aldo Pisani and Gino Lombardi. He compares both autopsies with the ophthalmic surgeon’s patient notes on Lina Napolitani. Malcolm chews through the surgeon’s operative summary, a dictated note that describes the technical components of Lina Napolitani’s surgery.

Edrisa mentions hook marks on the interior of Gino Lombardi’s eyelids and incisions (which are characteristic of curved surgical scissors) located in both conjunctiva. Edrisa also mentions an unusual absence of blunt trauma to the remainder of optic nerves and vessels. The surgeon’s operative summary includes mentions of an eye speculum, muscle hook, curved scissors, and an enucleation spoon which is designed with an indent to accommodate optic nerves and vessels.

Malcolm feels himself unzipping the shadows of past misdeeds and stepping inside. He is an Italian male who is mature and calm in action but young enough to chase life, to crave zest. His family raised him well, steeping him in their culture, but enabling him to break with traditions gone stale. He grows like a tree in the groves or in the yard. He loves his whole family and he is proud of the people who he comes from. 

The loss of his home breaks him. He didn’t lose it. It was taken from him. He could only watch as his beloved home is destroyed. They must pay. They, too, must watch as their lives are stolen from them. They will die knowing the blood price of their greed. His grown up hands grasp a pig’s head. He tries the spoon first.

Malcolm spits out his mouth guard and flails out of bed. He hops onto a work-issued laptop and compiles lists of olive groves in the continental U.S., limiting his search to farmland east of the Mississippi. He excludes Florida which is a flood basin. Natural disaster did not make Salad Fingers what he is. Malcolm is left with Alabama or Georgia.

The body of Aldo Pisani, an out-of-state stranger, breaks the tie. Malcolm takes Alabama off the maps. Less than twenty miles from Valdosta, Georgia is Lakeland, home to olive grove farmers.

Within half an hour, Malcolm slips into a suit, into die-hard habits, into a taxi bound for JFK, a wheeled carry-on luggage packed for three days. One connecting flight and six hours later, Malcolm drives a rental car to the Lanier County Office of the County Superior Court to obtain property records of a Lakeland farm. Once he has names, he will run public records searches.

When Malcolm remembers to disable airplane mode, he is smothered by texts and the humidity.

**Mother: Malcolm where are you.**

**Mother: Call me. Now.**

**Ains: You alright, bro? If you are, Mother will kill you. 😘💀**

Malcolm reluctantly phones his mother from outside of the county courthouse.

“Where are you? Are you safe?” demands Jessica.

“I’m relaxing in Georgia for two days. I had to get out of the apartment. The new lieutenant hasn’t called me in,” says Malcolm.

“How is Georgia?”

“Georgia’s a peach, Mother.”

“For a moment there, I thought you ran off chasing down a killer. You didn’t think to let me know that you’d be galvanting off on a trip for a few days?! I’m your mother. I should know these things,” says Jessica. “You’re not doing one of those plantation tours, are you? I adored Clark Gable in _Gone with the Wind_.”

“Something like that,” answers Malcolm. “I’ll visit a farm in Lakeland. It’s wine country.”

The exhaustion hits him as he’s speaking with his mother. He has a lot of fact finding left to do and the county clerk is friendly, chatty, and in no particular hurry like everyone south of the Mason-Dixon line. “I’ve gotta go, Mother. Can you ask Luisa to stop by and check on Sunshine?”

“Very well. I will not ask her to clean out the birdcage. That’s on you when you return.”

* * *

The rest of the tour group on Peachy Olive Farms are wearing sneakers and cowboy boots. Malcolm marches to his own beat in hidden socks and brown Oxfords. He’s wearing a tan fresco wool two-piece suit, no tie. The suit fabric is very airy, yet durable, wicking away his sweat. 

However, his tolerance of country fried heat took a nosedive since his return to New England climes. The sun gets in his eyes, blinding him, before Malcolm sneezes so hard that he almost loses balance. He keeps his balance, but loses his lunch right there on the dirt.

The tour guide halts the group and pulls out a radio. They stand in the shade of the olive trees, waiting on another Peachy Olive employee to collect Malcolm and escort him to an indoor lounge area. His feet itch where the bugs feast on him.

“Poor thang. Get along now. The name’s Marcello,” says a deeply tanned worker with dark curly hair fading to grey. He’s in a short sleeve button up and denims and work boots.

Malcolm sits in the visitor’s center, tucked out of sight beneath the ceiling fans. He sips on a cold water bottle with an ice pack on his neck. His fresco wool suit jacket is piled on a chair and out of harm’s way.

They make small talk about where Malcolm’s from.

“Oh, I see, a New Yorker. Y’all wilt like tomaters. The company used to ship its olive oil your way. Before management changed hands,” says Marcello. “I been here a lil’ over twenty five years, since I was sixteen. Picked for the family who planted the olive trees and expanded it into the vineyards.”

“What happened?”

“They was good people, the Manna family. You know, what all drop from Heaven in bible times. That was their name, no kiddin’. They come from Sicily, where Greek olives can grow. The oil they made tastes like summer, tickles your throat. They were famous for it. Peachy Olives sells pickled olive jars in the gift shop. That’s where Jar of Manna comes from, an homage to the folks who done it first.”

Marcello points at a series of framed photos displayed in a timeline. Malcolm observes colorful photos from the days of Kodak or Fujifilm. A hale and hearty family baked in the Georgian sun. Children nursing piglets with bottles. A sober father with plump children sitting on metal drums (presumably) of olive oil.

“Where are they now?” asks Malcolm. “Did they make their fortune and sell the business?”

“Can you keep a secret?” asks Marcello.

Malcolm loves encountering gossips. He offers a wide-eyed gaze with big nods.

“Between you and me, the men in black came to the Manna groves. Some of the workers got scared of getting deported. It had to be the FDA. Mr. Manna took apart the assembly line and let them truck away thousands of dollars of extra virgin olive oil. What we heard back in them days was that people were gettin’ sick from the oil. Their biggest buyer was a company in New York.”

“That didn’t sit right with us. Pure olive oil is health for the body. But when you cheap it, you might as well be chuggin’ snake oil. Some funny business was happening that Mr. Manna didn’t track with. Mr. Manna did all he could to save his family’s reputation and the business. Our jobs was at stake.”

“His wife, Mrs. Pinto, found him in a barn. He took rat poison and died before his name got cleared. The FDA let us be instead of shuttin’ us down. The Missus and the children fell apart as seasons came and went. The Manna family put their land up for bid and a group of farmers bought them out. The eldest Manna stayed on and showed the new owners how to tend his father’s groves.”

Marcello and Malcolm come to a stop at the final portrait of two men smiling with their martini glasses. On the left is a tall, bronze man who Malcolm recognizes as the stalwart patriarch of the Manna clan. On the right is a slightly shorter man with a headful of dark hair, a silver crucifix and a chunky ring on his finger. Malcolm recognizes Antonio Rizzo in his heyday.

“You alright, sweet cheeks? Do you need a bucket? You lookin’ spooked like you seen a ghost,” says Marcello.

What Malcolm sees is a dead man.

His carry-on is in the trunk of his car rental. Malcolm burns rubber speeding to the airport. 

Mr. Manna died from liquid arsenic kept in an old barn. The killer grew up around a pigpen, supplying him with ample opportunities to rehearse. The killer’s mother was Mrs. Pinto because women in Italy don’t change their surname. Lina, poor Lina, meant to say "Manna." On the four hour flight, the loose ends tie up into the shape of a noose.

Malcolm wheels his carry-on to his final destination. The little bell chimes with his arrival as he walks into an unremarkable deli business in Little Italy. He faces the man who delivered the last supper, or rather, just desserts to a trucker in a motel, a luthier, and a gelato lady.

Bert Pinto, the funeral caterer, says hello. He wears a paper hat and an apron. “I’m about to lock up, but I could fix you somethin’ real quick.”

“Thank you. I just came from the airport,” says Malcolm.

Bert finishes wiping down and throws the rag over his shoulder. He flips the sign to read “Business Closed.”

* * *

Jessica, in a panic, calls the precinct because Malcolm is missing. The longtime police clerk routes Jessica’s call to Gil’s business line out of habit. 

“Please get me the Lieutenant for Major Crimes,” demands Jessica. “It’s crucial that I speak with him.”

Gil pulls rank. “I am his superior. Whatever you wish to discuss with him would also fall under my purview. If you truly know your son’s whereabouts, it’s not a big deal for you to disclose.”

Jessica hangs up on him. Within the hour, Jessica turns up in person at the precinct. Gil intercedes before she makes herself someone else’s problem.

“I know the address where Malcolm is, or at least where his phone is. I went there to find Malcolm but the doors are locked. I need the police. There’s a tracker on Malcolm’s phone. It’ll keep emitting a signal on a dead phone battery. Why are you still here?” she snipes disapprovingly when Gil doesn’t jump right away.

“If you’ve been tracking Malcolm, then you’re aware that he’s been with me.”

Gil remembers the evening when Malcolm took his picture, on the phone which Jessica had chipped. 

“I don’t approve, as his mother. I did what was necessary to protect my son in a way that benefited everyone involved. Consider yourself lucky that all I wanted was distance and not revenge, Captain Arroyo,” says Jessica. “What goes up doesn’t have to come down, if one remembers their place.”

Gil expects burning hatred towards her, but all that he can scrape up is contempt. Contempt feels like loose change that falls short of a single fuck that he might’ve given.

“You’re forgetting your place in the grand scheme of things. Your son is still in trouble, Mrs. Whitly. I swear on my life, if we lose Malcolm before I get the chance to tell him that I love him. So help you God!”


	7. Chapter 7

Malcolm’s jaw hurts when he wakes up. Each of his wrists are zip tied to a fold up chair. Beneath his feet are reddish square tiles. In his unlined summer suit, he’s a bit cold. 

The killer moved him from the storefront to the small kitchen which houses a grill and burners, a convection oven, a sandwich prep table with a refrigerated cabinet base and a commercial fridge unit with clear sliding doors.

Malcolm doesn’t stay alone. Bert enters the kitchen from the cellar with Antonio Rizzo over his shoulder like a sack of rice. Rizzo is looking worse for the wear, between the ropes binding his hands and feet and the duct tape over his mouth.

Bert dumps him on the floor tiles. He leaves them to fetch a wheeled swivel chair with no armrests. Rizzo kicks at him, but it doesn’t stop Bert from using more rope to tie Rizzo down.

“There we go. Nice and comfy,” says Bert. He tears away the duct tape.

Rizzo puffs in deep breaths. He glares at Malcolm. “What are you looking at?”

“Please don’t do this, Bert,” says Malcolm. “I came here to talk.”

“I won’t talk to police,” replies Bert.

“I’m not police. You searched me, Bert. Did you find a badge or gun?” says Malcolm.

“Do you know what this man did to my family?” retorts Bert. “I know you do. You have a file on me in your luggage.”

“I don’t have the whole story,” says Malcolm.

Bert unhinges the sheet metal covering of the refrigerated sandwich prep table. Between tubs of lettuce ribbons and minced relish, he pulls out a clear mason jar which is filled with a reddish brine. Bert kicks Rizzo’s chair, causing a momentum that sends Rizzo into a steel table. Rizzo screams his head off when Bert places the jar on the steel table between Rizzo and Malcolm.

They both see exactly what Bert did with trophies plucked from the bodies of his victims.

“You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” shouts Rizzo.

“And you are a bootlegger and a fraud, Uncle Rizzo,” says Bert. He smiles at Rizzo’s confusion. “Take a good look. Who do I look like? If I put more weight on?”

“You’re Nicky’s boy. Uberto Manna. You were a little chunker,” says Rizzo.

“You can call it the revenge diet. When somethin’ burns you so bad the puppy fat melts right off,” drawls Bert. Standing at 6 foot tall, Bert should be heavier than one eighty.

“For your edification, Mr. Bright, Uncle Rizzo robbed my daddy blind. My daddy gave him our oil to sell in the big city. Uncle Rizzo, being an enterprising enterpriser, diluted the good stuff with peanut oil and pocketed the difference. You really made that lamp oil stretch, I have to hand it to you,” says Bert. He pantomimes tipping a hat.

“My daddy was their fall guy when the feds investigated the folks who died from allergic reactions to the contaminated oil. My daddy was looking at twenty five years upstate for reckless manslaughter. Daddy maxed out his personal credit to pay off the businesses that bought the bad oil. He saved the family name. We kept our trusts after his passing. I was twenty two. I did my best to enjoy the life that he was killed for.”

“I did not kill Nicky,” says Rizzo.

“Y'all pissed in the oil. That’s as good as digging his grave,” retorts Bert. “I don’t look too kindly on that. You and your people are vipers in a pit. Uncle Rizzo wasn’t the only person carryin’ on with the racket. Aldo Pisani took the oil that we reserved for Buehler and brung it to Uncle Rizzo. The fake oil then went through inspections done by Gino Lombardi. He made sure the other inspectors took the drums with the pure oil to pass muster.”

“What could Lina have possibly done to deserve your justice?” demands Malcolm heatedly.

“That sweet lady sweetened the invoices so Buehler Foods would pay markup. My daddy didn’t have a leg to stand on after taking the money,” says Bert. “I’ve got background as a development specialist. I know a good racket when I see’s one.”

Bert licks his dry lips. “Listen to me jawin’ away. Best way to catch up with friends, I think, is over dranks.”

He fetches gin, vermouth, and two martini glasses. “Comin’ up, I remember how you and my daddy would celebrate, Uncle Rizzo. I’m going to take mine dry. Your martini is gonna be dirty. Fittin’, don’t ya think?”

“Fuck you, you crazy shit!” spits Rizzo.

Bert turns to Malcolm. “Will you take yours dry?”

“I don’t drink,” answers Malcolm.

“I insist,” says Bert. He unscrews the caps and pours the gin and vermouth. He fetches olives from tupperware in the fridge. He hollows out their center with a steel cherry pitter before adding them to the martini glasses. A spoon, hook, and scissors join the ensemble.

“I can’t,” says Malcolm.

“Well, duh. You’ll have to excuse me,” says Bert. He cuts one zip tie and once more extends the drink.

Malcolm raises a free hand, sucking air through his teeth when his hands and arm prickle from restored blood flow. “I can’t drink because of my condition!”

“Aw shucks, you’re in the family way? I beg your pardon.” Bert dumps the contents of the proffered glass into his own. He grabs a carton of milk from the fridge and pours it into Malcolm’s glass.

Malcolm hates it because he wants the milk when he sees it. He drinks it down and despairs over his empty glass. He did not, in a million years, picture that the first person he tells… is a serial killer.

The same serial killer is laughing maniacally as he pours gin and brine from his horrible jar right into Rizzo’s mouth. He uses a thin metal skewer to grab an eyeball and to slide it right into the concoction sloshing out of Rizzo’s mouth. Bert spins his victim on the swivel chair.

“Gotta stir the martini!” Bert shouts. He pinches Rizzo’s nose as he knocks back his own drink. He laughs harder when Rizzo spits it all out and begs for mercy.

“It’s a shame that you didn’t try one. I pickled them three months just for you. That spicy brine is a family recipe. You’re not going to taste it again,” says Bert. He raises the thin, metal skewer and staggers toward Rizzo. “In fact, you’re not gonna taste or see much of anything.”

Malcolm strains in his chair and swipes at the jar of horrors before Rizzo loses both of his eyes. Glass strikes the kitchen tiles, shattering into fragments. The eyeballs scatter and Bert loses his marbles.

“You are gonna pay for that, you little cuss!” yells Bert. In a furious rage, Bert attacks Malcolm with his fist around the metal skewer. Malcolm’s chair clatters backwards, and Malcolm sees stars. He curls his legs before Bert falls upon him. The spiked end fills Malcolm’s vision as Malcolm grits his teeth and gradually succumbs to their high stakes grappling. His hand trembles as he pushes back against Bert’s inflamed wrath. Bert’s hand draws closer and closer with each blink. 

Bert shouts as he is yanked off of Malcolm. He slashes at Malcolm’s protector. Malcolm gasps as Bert jabs the thin metal skewer into Gil’s arm. Blood rolls down the knit sleeve in drops before thickening into a stain. The skewer is slippery from Gil’s blood. Bert fumbles it. Gil draws his gun and shoots twice into Bert’s leg. 

Bert is laid out on the tiles. Gil lands a savage kick that sends him rolling. Gil knocks the killer’s chin into bloodied tiles and cuffs him. Once the danger is over, Gil is only focused on Malcolm, seemingly unphased by the puncture wound in his left arm.

“Did he hurt you?” asks Gil, kneeling and touching Malcolm’s cheek. He uses the scissors to cut off the other zip tie.

“We’re fine,” breathes Malcolm. His ears are ringing from the shots, but he doesn’t care because Gil is with him.

“Oy! Get me outta here!” shrieks Rizzo, still bound to his chair.

* * *

Police backup joins the fray within minutes. Gil is helped by Dani to the medics. Malcolm briefs JT on what happened. 

“JT, I swear I’ll do a write-up. Let me find Gil,” begs Malcolm. He’s also anxious to leave the kitchen which reeks of alcohol and vinegar. Malcolm’s anxiety stacks high as he blurts to an EMT out on the street that he’s looking for Captain Gil Arroyo.

“Let me see your badge,” says the EMT.

“Can you tell me that you saw him walk away? Please.”

“Are you his partner?” asks the EMT.

“I am nine weeks pregnant with his baby,” says Malcolm loudly in his agitation.

Malcolm almost falls over (the baby!) when the storefronts, telephone poles, and potted shrubs whirl in his vision. He throws his arms out for the best crash landing possible. Then a pressure on his jacket sleeve precedes the realization that a taller man grabbed him with enough firmness to turn him on his heels.

He’s not surprised that it’s Gil. Gil has years of experience when it comes to rogue Whitlys… including the one quietly growing in Malcolm’s belly.

For once, Malcolm is grateful for his highly detailed memory. The shocking news of their baby wipes out the aftermath of fear and high tension and fatigue on a much beloved familiar face, and makes Gil square up his upper body in spite of his injury. However, Malcolm will remember the sharp pinpricks of light beaming from the creased slits of Gil’s eyes. The tips of his ears perking up from big smiles lifting his face. Gil’s pleasure and happiness would broadcast clearly to folks on the International Space Station. Then Gil’s mouth softens as he angles into Malcolm and touches Malcolm, relying on his physical senses to embrace the moment.

“You’re having a baby?” Gil’s palm traces along Malcolm’s back, gently outlining his shape.

“It’s yours, Gil. I’m having your baby,” utters Malcolm. He blinks and almost misses it when tears drop from Gil’s eyes. Gil’s tears don’t roll down his skin, nor do they leave a trail. Gil has that look which threatens to brim over and drown out all else. Malcolm feels like a lightning rod before a massive crackling storm.

“How could you act this stupid?! You endangered yourself. Both of you were close to death, and I didn’t know,” whispers Gil, each hushed word desperate to be heard. He’s careful not to overdo it with Malcolm, already thinking of how to protect their baby from grown up problems. It’s much worse than if Gil were shouting down the whole avenue.

“Uh, well. It’s a surprise for me, too. It hasn’t processed. The baby’s no bigger than a… a small fruit. I could still do the job and catch the bad guy. This doesn’t have to change anything,” insists Malcolm.

“Like hell it doesn’t.”

“Gil! It’s my decision. I decided to keep the baby. I made that call on my own. You don’t have to be more involved than what you’re comfortable with. I think we can establish appropriate boundaries and the baby will have two parents.” He talks fast, knowing how Gil will react.

“That won’t work,” cuts in Gil. “Not when I’m still in love with you. It’s just complicated factors that came into play. On my way here, I made the decision to tell you that I love you. I’m in love with you. I’ll never get over it, kid.”

“It’s because of the baby.” Malcolm can’t. He simply cannot.

“The baby happened because I loved you first, Malcolm. Don’t you get it? It would’ve been ideal if I had done right by you with a ring, wedding, honeymoon, the whole shebang. I want us to be official. I want to be your husband as much as our kid’s father, a good role model… “ Gil halts when he puts two and two together. “That night, you were going to tell me the good news. I should’ve figured something was up when you hogged my dessert.”

Malcolm’s face colors red. “I would’ve told you, Gil. I needed to figure out how, in light of your promotion. I would never have kept our baby from you. Believe me, Gil. I… thought of elaborate baby reveals. I had a crazy idea of buying a #1 Rookie onesie. I was tempted to slip into your office at the end of the day and toss you a file with the ultrasound tucked inside. I was scared and upset with myself that I hadn’t talked to you. Because I couldn’t let myself make any more mistakes. I wish I hadn’t let you go without a fight.”

Gil soothes Malcolm, marveling at how naturally it comes to him despite their time apart.

“You’re okay, kid. I… took a dinger. But, hey, better me than you! You’re safe with me, that’s all that matters.”

“Yes, Gil. Thank God. It’s not too late for us. The three of us.” The back of Malcolm’s hand presses his mouth. His smile shakes almost as much as his arm.

Gil draws Malcolm into an urgent, but tender embrace. In public view, Gil’s lips press into the shoulder of Malcolm’s button-up. Malcolm is engulfed in Gil’s hugely relieved sigh. Malcolm has the insane thought that all the pores in his skin are a bajillion loveless spaces soaking up Gil as much as possible. A frisson of need makes him shiver; makes him wish that they were behind locked doors nestled in the sheets.

“I can’t tell you how much it would’ve fucked me up if things went differently,” murmurs Gil. “My heart stopped when that asshole nearly gouged your eyes out. There is a shortage of perfect blue in the world and it would’ve been a crying shame.”

“How did you figure out where to find the killer?” asks Malcolm. He can’t help but turn to past events to cope with clear and present reality.

“We’ll talk the specifics when I get you to the loft. Your mother can explain,” says Gil. His fury cools into warm anticipation of a neat drink while Malcolm gives his mother a piece of his mind. “I would lead with baby stuff. Before she lobs her shoe through my skull.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stirred not shaken fufufufu. Burning question: who did y'all think the murderer was?


	8. Chapter 8

Gil can tell when the other shoe drops for Malcolm, in regards to how his mother tipped off the NYPD as to the whereabouts of the vengeful killer who abducted Malcolm and the targeted victim. When a uni returns Malcolm’s cell phone, it’s already dead. Malcolm turns it over in his hands before he walks slightly out of the way to slide the device into an enclosed trash receptacle, right into the opening for soda cans.

Gil and Malcolm don’t go to the loft right away, content to let Jessica Whitly stew. Gil answers texts from her while he gets treated at a trauma center. A nurse irrigates his puncture wound, flushing out clumps of blood and foreign matter, stitches up his muscles and his dermis, lightly thumps his shoulder, and sends him out the door with discharge papers and prescriptions for antibiotics and non-opioid painkillers.

“After all that, the nurse doesn’t give me the good stuff,” jokes Gil.

“When we see Jessica Whitly, you shake her down for stronger medicine,” says Malcolm flatly. Malcolm makes it clear that he will not speak to his mother before their in-person meeting.

He borrows Gil’s cell phone. “Ains? Hey. Yeah, I’m okay. Where are you?” Malcolm’s eyes flick over the bloodstained knitwork of Gil’s sweater. “Mother is still in the loft. Lying in wait. Great.”

Malcolm scoots in his chair and interrupts his sister. “Listen, Ains. I’m with Gil. He and I are together. We’re going to have words with one Jessica Whitly.”

After a few minutes of Malcolm not speaking, he nods, waves his hand around. “Whatever she says, I’m just going to tell her to suck it up, very nicely without swearing. She’s going to be a grandmother.” Malcolm winces when it’s his turn to be interrupted, angling his ear from the phone. Gil can hear Ainsley over the line. “Oh yeah, congratulations! You’re about to be an aunt, too.”

Gil swipes down his face and his goatee, shaking his head. He loves Malcolm, but he is not in love with the kid’s habit of casual info dumps.

Malcolm does not demand explanations once they’re inside the loft. Jessica is scrolling her iPhone at the breakfast bar, situated with gin, bottled tonic water, and lightning cable.

“Mother,” says Malcolm faintly. 

“Do you know how worried I’ve been, Malcolm?!” Her voice deepens with anger, rumbling like thunder.

He gestures for Gil to take a seat. “Gil, what will you have?”

“Ah, not gin,” answers Gil. Not after Malcolm’s account of the killer’s deadly martinis. Malcolm pours him whiskey.

“Malcolm Whitly, I have half a mind to hire a bodyguard with how often you get kidnapped!” continues Jessica. “If I thought you could handle it, I would install a very well-trained service dog as a security measure!”

“As long as he is a good boy,” says Gil. “That’s what it has to say on the doctor’s note for work accommodations.”

“You stay out of this. This is between me and my son,” growls Jessica.

Malcolm gets a tall glass for himself and fills it to the top with soda. Then he scrapes out the remnants of the ice cream carton in his freezer. Malcolm perches on the kitchen stool as he laps at the bubbly foam of his root beer float. Gil is mildly hypnotized by that little pink tongue licking up sweet, sweet cream. Gil almost loses it when he wonders if this is a pregnancy craving.

“Please listen closely, Mother. Consider this my two weeks’ notice. I’m breaking my lease and leaving the premises. Sunshine is coming with,” says Malcolm. “Would you prefer if I left the key on this counter or if I drop it off at your place of residence?”

“You will do no such thing,” replies Jessica, with a hand on her hip. Besides a fleeting glimpse of her molars from how far down her jaw drops, she readily puffs up with quick rejoinders. “You have everything you need here! Clean, well-lit, spacious. No roommates or neighbors to complain about your nightly disturbances. It’s safe enough for your late walks. You will not find a place with this much beautiful brickwork. Where would you go?!”

Malcolm reaches over the counter and Gil immediately obliges with his hand. Gil’s thumb rubs at Malcolm’s clammy palm. Some of Malcolm’s tension eases up.

“My weapons collection and my library will go into storage, but I don’t require them for daily use. In fact, I wouldn’t want them in the house while we’re transitioning into the next thing,” says Malcolm, turning to look at Gil with a soft, secret look. Gil feels a thrill go up his body, too. He is way too proud of Malcolm. Not that Gil wouldn’t root for Malcolm in a shouting match, but the more maturely they act in face of Jessica’s impending wrath, the less she can object to the plans which they make independently without her two cents in the mix.

“Gil’s house was my home away from home. I was already making myself comfortable there, before you interfered with my personal life,” says Malcolm. “I’m a fully consenting adult engaged in a relationship with another man.”

“Him?! You would choose a regular house with old appliances and a cluttered sublevel over this loft?! This is prime living, Malcolm!” scoffs Jessica. “You can barely take care of a parakeet. I’m personally leaning towards a Doberman, to keep you alive.”

Malcolm wipes his sticky lips with a napkin. His root beer float is not done, nor is he finished talking.

“It wouldn’t be a good idea for me to get a dog. Gil and I will have a full plate setting up the house. You’re right in that we need to remodel and upgrade,” says Malcolm. “But I can’t stay here when my landlady is spying on me and pulling the strings whenever I attempt to live how I wish. You deliberately broke us up, Mother. I don’t know who you bothered, but you overstepped by interfering with Gil’s career.”

“Gil, are you bothered by your promotion as a police captain? He would’ve received commendations eventually. I simply catalyzed the inevitable,” says Jessica.

“You know who you sound like?” retorts Malcolm. “Think about it. Think about what you said after admitting that you played with our lives just because you could.”

“I am your mother,” says Jessica. “And I don’t sound like _him_.” 

Jessica points her finger at Gil. “He’s as bad as your father. Malcolm, do you not see who it is that you’re in love with? He’s supposedly a public servant but I do not trust him with you! That interloper is another sly bastard acting as an authority figure. Why isn’t he dating someone appropriate for his age? Why is he dating someone that he hired?”

“If Jackie were around, we wouldn’t be here,” says Gil. “I’d be at home right now watching Dancing with the Stars if I had my girl.”

Malcolm steps closer to Jessica, blocking her view of Gil. He wants her full attention, such as it is.

“How dare you. Gil is the one good thing in my life! I must ask you to go, Mother. I have packing to do. Lots of packing,” says Malcolm. He swings his arm and gestures at the exit.

“This is not over!” Jessica brings her hand up, touching her pert nose. Her breathing is uneven, her eyelids twitching as her thoughts cycle out of control. Then she yanks the lightning cable and tosses her phone into an Hermès handbag. It’s a bad throw. Jessica knocks the Hermès onto the wood floor. Out tumbles her enamel pill holder, bursting open and scattering tablets like buckshot.

“Fuck.” Jessica’s balance is compromised by the gin. She crushes the pills underfoot as she unsteadily moves to play fifty two pick up with tiny objects. Her hands grope around on the floor, but she’s not seeing clearly where her pills landed. Her fingers pinch at nothing.

Malcolm goes to help her up. Jessica shakes him off and gulps down a random tablet.

“Mother, what did you just put in your mouth?” says Malcolm. 

“No worse than what you put in your mouth,” answers Jessica, rolling a hairy eyeball at Gil.

Malcolm sees that she’s considering popping another pill to spite him. He gets a grip on her and pulls her from the mess.

“You’re seriously out of line,” says Malcolm.

Jessica’s shoulders tremble and her hair falls out of its blow out, sticking to her lipstick and the shining tracks of tears. She wrenches her arm away and Malcolm lets her go, stepping outside the range of her very sharp heels.

“Why are you leaving me again?” she sobs. “For years, I kept the home fires burning, for my children to come back. When that failed, I tried making you the perfect space. Everything you need is where I put it. Why, sweetheart? Why don’t you want anything from me?”

“Mother, I’m just moving out. It’s time for me,” says Malcolm. “It’s time for us, really.”

He opens his arms to her and Jessica falls all over him. Her hand rubs at his nape, running along the back layers of his hair. She feels as solid to him now as she did when he was easy pickings in school.

“You’ll have to excuse my lack of faith in _men_. Reassure me that Gil never took advantage of you. You were a child when you met him. How can I let you go? Not my son. My son,” mumbles Jessica.

“I didn’t put my hands on him. I know how it looks, Jess, but I did not ever force myself,” says Gil. His outrage isn’t as loud as he could make it, considering his role in Malcolm’s past.

“Gil’s looked out for me since forever. He is not a dirty old man. He didn’t take any underhanded measures to groom me into misconduct or initiate manipulative power plays,” says Malcolm. “He is not my father.”

“Gil is certainly old enough to fit the bill,” says Jessica. She pulls away from their hug and unintentionally kicks the pill box across the floor. “Whatever I took is working like a charm. Because I am wondering if you and Gil would instead live on a property that’s closer to midtown than his house.”

“Possibly, maybe.” Malcolm blinks twice at Gil before he takes a huge leap. “We need space for a nursery and play area.”

“Ah ah nursery?” gasps Jessica. She darts a look at his stomach. “How far along?!”

“Really early, still. Almost ten weeks,” says Malcolm. “We’re waiting until 16 weeks to make an announcement.”

“Does Ainsley know? Of course she would. My conspiring offspring,” says Jessica. 

“I may have let it slip. You both found out on the same day, if that helps,” says Malcolm.

Despite her put out expression, Jessica still hugs Malcolm because her baby is having a baby.

“Never mind that. You don’t have too much time for a new baby, settling into livable housing, and a wedding. Oh yes, a wedding. I could open up Milton House for a reception afterward,” says Jessica, with awe creeping into her tone.

“We’re not having our reception in a murder house,” declines Gil. Gil squints at Malcolm, who shuts his mouth before informing Jessica that Gil has not yet popped the question. Malcolm smiles into his glass before going back to the fridge to refill his soda.

“No. Nonononono. That’s a lot of sugar. You are not growing me a grandchild on sunshine and lollipops,” says Jessica. 

“She’s not wrong. When was the last time you had a vegetable?” asks Gil. While Malcolm thinks about it, Jessica has already moved on.

“Here is good. The empty loft could be an event venue,” says Jessica, gesturing grandly.

“I don’t want to have my reception at Panera Bread,” objects Malcolm. “Did you really mean it when you said you’d put one in this location?”

“Not a valid concern. It’ll take time to get the contracts drawn up with Panera,” says Jessica. Both her hands wave around with much zest and she stumbles slightly. “But who cares? You can get married whenever. That baby, however, will not wait on you. Let me handle the contractors for renovating your house, Gil. Malcolm, you will not move out in two weeks’ time. Gil stays with you while I get your house in order.”

“That could work,” relents Gil. “My house isn’t up to snuff. That would be a lot easier on me and you, with the baby.” Malcolm turns into Gil and squeezes his arm in tacit agreement.

“I’m getting a new phone, Mother,” says Malcolm. “My number will stay the same. You have to call one of us before you visit. You don’t get to keep a spare key.”

“But what about me giving access to subcontractors when you’re both happily tied up at a crime scene?” challenges Jessica.

“It’s our house, Jess. You can’t barge in like you’ve done before,” refuses Gil. He looks over Jessica’s head and right at Malcolm who smiles at him adoringly.

“Leave the key for me in a hiding spot then. Malcolm doesn’t always pick up and frankly, Gil, I don’t think you care over much on what palettes you’d prefer for your accent trims.” Jessica gets in between Gil and Malcolm, and God she’s obvious in how she does it, but this time, it’s to draw them all closer for the best possible future as a family.


	9. Epilogue

His feet hurt. Their last errand before Malcolm’s planned baby shower is holding them up. Jessica sent them out, him and Ainsley, to fetch a custom order cake that is to die for apparently. Despite Jessica harping about gestational diabetes and Malcolm’s nutrition. 

The baker apologizes and offers Malcolm a comfortable chair, but he can’t sit down for too long before his lower back aches without a lumbar cushion. When he’s standing up, he feels nauseous in the heated bakery but somehow still wants to eat the cheesecakes drizzled with chocolate and coconut flakes.

He goes to the bathroom like four times despite abstaining from coffee or tea. Partly to fulfill his hand washing compulsion and partly to look at himself sideways in the bathroom mirror. It’s not over until at least four weeks later.

“I am so, so sorry. I can’t tell you how this happened,” says the baker. She looks distinctly unapologetic, leaning at the counter, and making small talk with Ainsley who she recognizes from the news. Ainsley mentions taking video reels of the bakery for a holiday fluff piece and the baker jumps at the chance to promote the business.

Ainsley and him go through the shops on the same block as the bakery. They split a bagel. Malcolm sips water as he buys maternity wear. He learned the hard way not to chug the whole bottle if he’s not home. He does need more shirts with strategic holes (for nursing, boo). In a cruel twist of parenthood and hormones, Malcolm has more hairs on his chest than before. Yet his skin is way too sensitive to pluck or wax; the baby will latch onto nipple shields or bottle feed with milk. Malcolm is so done with hair drama.

“Holy shoot. Would you look at the time? We gotta go,” says Ainsley. This time when she strides into the bakery, the cake is boxed up and ready to go. The baker winks at Ainsley. Malcolm’s attention is too fogged by baby thoughts to think beyond the baby shower. They’re going to have a pile of new baby things to sort through before their nursery is ready.

They did need Jessica to oversee the remodeling with Gil running a precinct and Malcolm putting up with the lieutenant who replaced Gil. Four weeks seems so far away with the baby literally weighing on him, but somehow also not enough time to get the nursery furnished and organized for a child whose size will drastically fluctuate and increase, whose needs will change quickly for first-time parents.

Yet Malcolm is beyond happy to be doing this with Gil. He’s lived with the consequences of what can happen when one marries the wrong guy. Malcolm can wait for when they’re both on paternity leave to get the baby room squared away.

Malcolm is delighted when his friends are already convened at the house which he and Gil share. He forgets about the long wait for the cake. The baby shower is downstairs. The upstairs rooms are temporarily tarped off, but their bathroom is finished. The remodelers even installed a handlebar in the shower tiles, to accommodate the fact that Malcolm is blowing up in the family way and there is no going back. Malcolm plays a few rounds of games with his family and his friends before he gets showered with presents.

“This is really Asian, but I couldn’t help myself. Your baby can’t kick off this blanket.” Edrisa shows up with a squishy bag stuffed with what looks to be a child sized sleeping bag genetically crossed with a snap-on vest. The whole thing is a bright pastel yellow. A cartoon puppy or mutated bear, drizzled with chocolate and a cherry on its head, adorns one side of the sleeping bag. Japanese characters are stitched as an additional embellishment. An odd phrase “tofu hugs little dream” is below the Japanese characters.

“Yeah, something got lost in translation,” says Edrisa with a shrug.

“I love it,” gushes Malcolm. “Thank you Edrisa. Give me a tofu hug.” Edrisa giggles before she bounces into Malcolm with a little more oomph in her excitement.

Dani bought tiny soft booties with monster faces stitched on the toes. “For when the baby kicks your ass. I mean, butt. Oh boy.”

“I expect my child will have an advanced vocabulary,” says Malcolm. Dani smirks at him before the baby kicks.

“Oh damn, already wants to try ‘em on,” says Dani. Her face dips back, flustered with herself. “You and I both know that I’m not a potty mouth.”

“It’s the feeling that you shouldn’t indulge a minor vice but do so anyway,” agrees Malcolm.

“So what are you thinking of naming the sprout?” asks JT. He and Tally bring their baby. Well, Tally brings in the infant car seat. JT hauls in a large unwrapped wholesale box of diapers with a Christmas bow stuck on top.

Gil laughs when he sees it. Him and JT shake hands.

“Just keeping it real, boss,” says JT.

“We almost forgot the actual date of your baby shower. I swear I put it on my phone with notifications toggled. This morning, I said to JT ‘Honey, grab something quick from the store,’” says Tally. She points at the huge diaper box with the scuffed cardboard, dirty from a warehouse. “That was not what I meant.”

“But honey, I was quick,” fires back JT.

“Your gift is not even wrapped. I usually do better than this. If I had planned better, I would’ve made you a diaper cake with the little shoes on top,” groans Tally.

“Drink?” offers Jessica who joins in on the gifting fun times. She-- wait no, Ainsley has cocktails on a tray.

“I heard that you can drink wine during labor,” says Tally over her cocktail when she catches Malcolm’s wistful glance at the fruit soaking in the alcohol.

“There’s no reason why not. I would’ve opted for Bordeaux instead of watered down apple juice had that been an option,” says Jessica, cringing from the amenities of the maternity ward.

Gil gives Malcolm a squeeze and whispers to him. “If you want, I can pack emergency booze in your ready bag.”

“I’m getting an epidural,” says Malcolm. “But if my body burns right through it, pick something that’s not too dry, please.”

“I know what you like, baby,” assures Gil. Gil plants a kiss on Malcolm’s cheek, the sweet gesture belying the hand groping his backside.

Jessica pointedly sees nothing when she steps into their conversation and asks to borrow Gil.

Malcolm clears his throat and blinks out of his slightly glazed look. He talks to JT. “Jamie Taylor. Jayden Tait.”

“Try again. I ain’t none of that,” says JT, assuming that Malcolm is throwing out more name games.

Malcolm smiles with cheek. “That’s good. Those names are still available for my son or daughter. To answer your earlier question, I was thinking Jamie Taylor or Jayden Tait. Gil and I are workshopping it out.”

“Are you serious, Bright? You’re playing me,” says JT.

“Honey, that’s cute! Baby JT. Why didn’t we think of that?!” says Tally. She smacks JT’s arm in a teasing way.

“Do you guys mind?” asks Malcolm. “It started out all in good fun, but joke’s on me. I’m ninety nine percent sure. The list of names is very short.”

“What’s the one percent for?” asks JT.

“There’s always Jarmel Tarmel, J.T.,” says Malcolm. He uses every bit of his experience as an investigative agent to keep a straight face. Malcolm, Dani, and Edrisa keel over dead when Tally spits her drink on her infant’s soft spot. Luckily, the Tarmels are ready with burp cloths.

“Look, I know you someone’s parent. But… F.U.,” says JT, wiping away tears from belly laughs. He briefly looks around to make sure Gil didn’t hear him.

“Sweetheart, you have another gift upstairs. We hid it inside one of the guestrooms,” says Jessica, tapping his shoulder.

“Lemme use the bathroom first,” says Malcolm. He means to grab his gift and take it downstairs.

Malcolm’s still shaking water from his hands when he steps out into the hall. There’s a large silver ribbon bow with long silken tails hanging on the door to the guest room closest to their master bedroom. Downstairs is quiet, too quiet. 

“Hmmm,” says the profiler. “I sure hope this doesn’t trigger my complex PTSD.”

In the long drawn out minutes, he realizes that the bakery errand was a page right out of the playbook of Jessica Whitly’s diversionary tactics. His partner and his mother are in league, and he was too baby brained to detect trickery.

It’s too real when the door swings ajar without provocation, hinges creaking as an emaciated white hand emerges. Malcolm can’t see what’s behind the door. Pale as death, brittle nails soiled by the grave scratch up the paint. He jumps when the deathly hand rattles the door and then slams it like a coffin lid. He’s scared, so scared for himself and his baby but he knows that his demons are lying to him, to discourage him from taking that necessary step forward. He refuses to be cowed by the unknown.

Plus, like, he wants his gift.

Malcolm turns the knob and pushes in the door with the silver ribbon. The walls are painted with wobbly ducks and sailboats in soothing blue waves. The nursery room is furnished with not just a crib and changing station, but also a rocking chair and a small table. They have a shelf with squishy books and soft toys and parenting books at the right height for Malcolm to grab from the rocking chair. The baby room which Malcolm’s been dreaming about for months is ready for use. 

Almost everything that Malcolm could ever want is inside the so-called guestroom. Gil is in the center; he kneels as soon as he sees Malcolm. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me and being my partner for life, Malcolm Bright?”

Malcolm stands mute and dumb on a rug colored with green lily pads and smiling fishies. He has to tamp down the paranoid anxiety from when he saw the silver ribbon on the door.

“Jesus. Bright, are you crying?” says Gil. He holds out the ring box like it’s personally offended Malcolm even as his free hand pulls Malcolm into a gentle hug.

“Yes,” answers Malcolm thickly.

Gil cradles his face. “Yes to what, kid?”

“Yes, I’m crying. But also yes to getting married,” says Malcolm. “Is it okay if I wait to wear my ring?” 

“Whatever you want, Malcolm. Can you hold your hand up for me? Let me do this right,” requests Gil. 

Malcolm’s right hand covers his lips as he extends his hand in anticipation of their official engagement. Gil bends the knee and slides the ring over his nail cuticle.

“I think you can go a little further than that,” says Malcolm. He’s tempted to tease Gil by calling him Daddy. Gil chuckles and he nudges the precious metal band to just short of Malcolm’s lower knuckle, stopping where the ring would get stuck due to the miracles of pregnancy.

Malcolm turns to admire the shiny. He spies Ainsley and his mother. He bites his lip and sees the “gag me with a spoon” face which Ainsley makes at him. Ainsley holds up a cell phone, recording his reaction to the double whammy gift of a finished nursery and Gil’s surprise proposal. Wow, is he glad that he didn’t call anyone Daddy on his baby sister’s phone camera. Malcolm and Gil kiss for the camera and Malcolm just about swoons from Gil holding him around their baby.

Jessica is crowding Ainsley in the door frame. Her arms are crossed, but she’s hanging back and letting them have their moment. Malcolm almost has everything he could ever want.

“Y’all okay up in here?” calls out JT, followed by the sound of his steps and baby Tarmel giggling from the light bounce of JT’s gait.

“We’re good. Everything’s perfect. Can you take our picture, JT?” asks Malcolm.

He stands by Gil’s side, where he hopes to be for always. His mother hesitates, but Malcolm beckons her closer. 

“Thank you, Mother. For everything you’ve done. I absolutely love it,” says Malcom.

“Oh sweetie, I just wanted you to be happy,” says Jessica. It’s not an apology for screwing with his love life. It doesn’t change the fact that Malcolm went by himself to that life-changing doctor appointment, and he couldn’t even call anyone to talk about it. It doesn’t roll back the clock for a do-over on the days when Malcolm carried his baby alone. 

But she’s his mother and the baby’s grandmother… and soon to be his husband’s mother-in-law, Malcolm concludes with twisted satisfaction.

Ainsley, who overhears the non-apology, rolls her eyes before an impish smile plays on her dainty lips. She sneaks up behind Jessica. Malcolm nods.

Jessica then gets smooshed between her children, who laugh when she objects to the smooshing and the conspiracy to smoosh. In the hallway, his other friends, Dani and Edrisa, are playing peekaboo with the baby now in Tally’s arms while JT whips out his phone.

When Malcolm (and the babyyy), his partner, his mother, and his sister huddle up together for pictures, finally, he has everything he could ever want inside his room of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, I wrote the fic scenes in this order: 
> 
> 1) Malcolm tells Gil he's pregnant  
> 2) Malcolm and Jessica fight  
> 3) sex, baby making, happy ending  
> 4) crime scenes  
> 5) Gil saves Malcolm
> 
> I'm suddenly craving Italian, wonder why? Lol. Onward to Broyo baby!


	10. Labor Day

The nurses, tough old bitches, who have dealt with board certified sexist doctors, who have seen the death of free love in one AIDS patient after another, who have for decades ignored the Surgeon General’s warnings about smoking tobacco…. Well, the nurses are none too impressed when Gil lovingly guides Malcolm screaming toward the hospital entrance. The nurses are standing less than 15 feet from the entrance, getting some fresh air through a cigarette filter.

When Malcolm tearfully informs them that his contractions are a couple minutes apart, they look at each other and then at Gil, as if to say: ‘ _Can’t you_ men _do anything right_?’

“You’ll want Labor and Delivery. Hopefully y’all pre-reg,” says one nurse. 

“Think so, yes. Thanks!” says Gil. He just wants to explain to them that it’s not his fault. He did not neglect his fiance.

According to Dani, Malcolm emailed her a very long message. When she read to the bottom, Malcolm apologized for the delay in his reply to her question owing to his abdominal discomfort.

“Gil, read this,” says Dani. She plops her laptop on his desk and scrolls to the bottom of the email. “Does that boy understand that he is having your baby? Literally, right now?”

Gil slings on his jacket and stops by his Lieutenant’s office. Then he goes home and fetches his very stubborn and extremely pregnant fiance. He gets the privilege of feeling like the bad guy as he carts Malcolm off to Labor and Delivery. Gil tries to push back the irrational terror of getting stuck with Malcolm on the elevator ride.

The nurses for maternity skip triage and admit him immediately. The nurse who pushes Malcolm’s wheelchair cracks up when she points out that Malcolm shoved on an unlaced boot with the tongue flapped down loosey goosey. On his other foot, Malcolm shoehorned into his red leather height enhancing elevator shoes with the thick sole.

As he is gowned and prepped for delivery, Malcolm flinches when he looks down. His hairier chest, like pointy coconuts. The naturally darkened line tracing his destroyed abdomen, like a chalk line at a crime scene denoting the slim body that is gone forever. The red lines spidered on his skin where his obliques are in hiding. He can see the faint indents from the stitch job after John Watkins stabbed him. He rolls into the hospital gown which drapes like a veil of horrors, but it’s better than looking down at himself as is.

He feels like he’s in the cockpit and his belly is the nose of the plane, and he wants to jump off this ride. But instead of a parachute, it’s a fucking diaper bag.

Malcolm’s water broke in the middle of the night while Malcolm paced around obsessively, flipping out over two profiles, looking for a tie breaker that determined which suspect Major Crimes detectives leaned the hardest into. Malcolm then mopped up, took a warm shower, stretched, and then willed his contractions to slow down so he could focus on the pressing issue at the forefront of his mind.

When Gil kissed him goodbye before work and told Malcolm to go sleep, Malcolm curled up with his laptop on the couch. Considering how much extra weight he put on (they were thinking 9 lb baby), and his more than usual off kilter conversations fueled by adjusted psych meds, Malcolm did himself and everyone a favor by working at home the closer he approached full-term pregnancy.

Gil would never say it, but Malcolm understands that, clinical terms aside, he is fat and crazy. And it is Gil’s fault, although Malcolm has so far avoided throwing it in Gil’s face like that. Honestly, Malcolm can’t throw much of anything without a stable surface to grab onto. 

“Just gimme the epidural. Right into my spine, please oh please please please. Give me eppy or give me death,” begs Malcolm, biting his knuckles. He blows out a deep, skittering breath. Then he mops his feverish red face with the sleeve of his hospital gown and scowls when Gil tries to help with a cool wet wipe.

The obstetrician advises against the epidural, because Malcolm is already in active labor, dilated at 8 cm. Malcolm wants to throw something, but he is already in the bed. Gil tells Malcolm how good he’s doing, how much he loves Malcolm, that he won’t leave Malcolm’s side.

Malcolm can throw a fit, that’s something he can throw. It’s like John Watkin’s knife is tapping on his belly button. From the inside.

“Fuck you for ruining me,” he says, lips contorted, the spray of his spat out curses flashing in the fluorescent light before he drools. “Don’t you fucking touch me, Gil.” Malcolm is reduced to a grunting, moaning fiend as each contraction reaches a new peak in a hellish climb.

It’s like a volcano is spreading him open; he is burning for every nasty thing he did to make Gil’s baby. 

The contractions spread out for a bit, allowing him to rest and reach for Gil.

“I’m sorry, Gil. I was just saying anything to make it stop,” says Malcolm. He pants softly, in disbelief when breathing does not trigger pain.

“I love you. You’re doing great. I won’t leave you to do this by yourself,” says Gil. If he’s said it once, he’s said it a dozen times. Malcolm drinks in Gil’s presence like water. He’s touching the waves in Gil’s hair when the pressure of the baby’s movements yanks him back under.

Once more, he’s an irritable mess pushing and pushing. Each breath is a scream. He spent years breathing, but the repetition of simple physical functions eludes him. The only thing that’s together about him is Gil. When it’s time, he can’t feel Gil. The phantom twinge of his once shattered carpals fades. The unknown engulfs him. He pushes.

“What a head of hair!” declares the obstetrician.

Malcolm breaks, but this time it’s into a joyful laugh. Jayden Tait is much smaller than he and Gil expect. Jayden is screaming red.

Malcolm sits up, a sob pouring out his raw throat. Pain, pressure, and heat collide again. Malcolm pushes, the only thing he knows to do, when the contractions peak.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” asks Gil. He grabs at Malcolm’s sweaty face. All of Malcolm’s terror shows on Gil’s expression. “Look at me. Look at me, Bright. Stay with me.”

“Oh my. That is a heartbeat on the fetal monitor,” chirps the obstetrician. “Stand by, everyone. Whoops a daisy.”

More fitful crying fills the birthing room, from another set of tiny, wet lungs. The team of helpers are all in conversation. The obstetrician takes care of the afterbirth, the bleeding, and stitching up minor issues.

The realization dawns on Gil when the other shoe drops (the other baby, to be apt). 

“Gil, give me my phone. Picture. Your face,” chuckles Malcolm. He feels indulgent and incredibly forgiving as though he were capable of a thousand pardons.

“Twins. How did we miss it,” says Gil. Malcolm is not up for solving the mystery.

Malcolm has their firstborn Jayden, skin to skin. He absolutely melts from Gil cradling their extra bundle of surprise. The first thing she hears from her father is her name. 

“Kiara Arroyo, how’s that?” Gil asks their little girl. 

“I love it. I love her. I love you,” says Malcolm, weepy as she nuzzles her daddy’s sweater.

They laugh over Jayden taking all the hair, leaving Kiara a lick of fuzz on her crown. It’ll be awhile before Kiara can do pigtails. Otherwise, they’re squirmy pink frogs in a blanket.

“Let’s inform Jessica of the arrival of the trust fund babies,” says Malcolm.

“Wait a minute,” says Gil. He breaks out the emergency booze, in the form of mini bottles.

“Oh my God, the wine would’ve been helpful when I was shoving out _your_ babies with no epidural!” exclaims Malcolm.

“They’re my babies now, huh? Or are they _my_ babies only when they’re a pain in the butt? Next time, don’t wait ‘til you’re dilated,” retorts Gil.

“There’s not going to be an f-u-c-k-i-n-g next time,” vows Malcolm, spelling it out for Gil.

“You know what they say, kid. Men can’t do anything right. We both effed up really good.” They clink the twin bottles before Gil bends over the bed rail for one kiss, two kisses.

Malcolm falls in love all over again with the man who did do one thing right.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is what you were looking for!
> 
> Many thanks to KateSamantha for naming Kiara. ^_^ <3


End file.
